Fate of Empires
by La Guera
Summary: My first LOTR fic. Violence and sexuality. When Legolas falls in battle, his wife's grief threatens everything
1. Default Chapter

NOTE: I do not own, nor am I profiting from, the Lord of the Rings Characters. They belong to J.R.R Tolkien and his estate. Do not sue me. This is for entertainment only. Saryn is my creation.  
  
Legolas of Mirkwood stretched languorously as he emerged from his bower to look out over the private glade he shared with his beloved wife, Saryn. His keen gray eyes searched for her on the glorious rose-pink, pre-dawn horizon. He spotted her, a flash of white and gold in the distance, her lithe body bending low to pluck the fat red tomatoes from the rich earth. He could see that her reed basket was already overflowing with uncountable fruits and vegetables. He smiled as he relished the scene before him, the scent of nature's newness in his nostrils. At that moment, he could think of no place he would rather be.  
  
"Saryn," he called, smiling. Her head immediately popped up from the tall reeds that surrounded their garden. Her coral lips parted into a brilliant smile that warmed his heart.  
  
"Legolas," she cried, running toward him with the basket in her alabaster arms. Her nimble feet swished through the delicate green grass, fruit tumbling from the basket as she came. Her hair, spun gold as fragile as a spider's web, floated behind her on the morning breeze.  
  
"Good morning, dear wife," he laughed, catching her in his slender arms as she flew up the hewn rock steps. He pulled her close, burying his nose in her hair and inhaling the intoxicating scents of sun and earth and morning dew. He stepped back, pulling her face to his and tasting her soft lips. He plunged his hands into her hair, letting it pour through his fingers. As the morning sun cleared the lush Mirkwood horizon, he could no longer contain his desire. "Breakfast can wait until later, love; now there are more important hungers to be sated." He gently took the basket from her hands and led her into the cool darkness of their bower.  
  
Inside the bower, the dance of love began between them as it had since their joining two hundred years ago. The kissed and nuzzled, experienced and loving hands caressing and exploring exposed skin. They moved as one, arms and legs gently intertwined. Her teeth nipped at his neck as he moved within her, urging him on. Their act moved to its inevitable end, her sharp cries of pleasure echoing in his ears and blotting out all else. When it was over, he laid his body against hers and drifted to sleep to the soft murmur of her heart.  
  
An authoritative knock on his bower door awoke him sometime later. Who is that? he wondered groggily, groping for his green tunic and pants. He yawned and wiped the sleep from his eyes. "I'm coming," he called, stepping into his pants and ambling to the door. Upon opening it, he found a grim-faced sentry waiting for him.  
  
"Master Legolas, a word with you, please." The sentry held an official scroll in his hand.  
  
"Yes?" he asked, stepping outside and closing the door behind him.  
  
"Sir, special orders from your father," the sentry replied handing him the scroll.  
  
"Orders from my father? What's happened?"  
  
"I know nothing, sir. I was told only to deliver this to you."  
  
With that, the sentry scurried away, leaving him with the scroll. He turned it over in his hands, strangely worried. Whatever it was must be of great importance, or else his father would have told him personally. What could demand such secrecy? He tore open the official seal and read on.  
  
Dear Legolas,  
  
King Elrond has convened a meeting of representatives from all who dwell in Middle Earth to discuss a matter of grave import. I have chosen you as delegate from the elves of Mirkwood. You are to leave at once for Rivendell. Tell no one of your departure. I have faith that you will make the right decision in this matter. The fate of all depends upon it. Choose wisely.  
  
King Thranduil  
  
Legolas was wide-awake now, his head spinning with unanswered questions. What could be so important as to warrant a summons from his uncle, King Elrond? Most of the time, the two elven kingdoms were barely aware of one another's existence. He supposed he would find out when he got there. He turned on his heel and went back inside.  
  
He awakened Saryn as he entered. "Legolas, what is it?" she asked, sensing his urgency.  
  
"I have been summoned to a meeting in Rivendell," he said. He packed as he spoke, stuffing a barkskin pouch with elven bread and apples.  
  
"Rivendell? But why?" She left the bed and came to his side.  
  
"I don't know," he told her truthfully. He filled his flask with water.  
  
"Well, when will you be back?" Her hand pulled gently on his shoulder.  
  
He stopped rummaging for his quiver of arrows and turned to face her. Her blue eyes looked back at him, full of an unspoken terror. In their two hundred years together, they'd never spent more than a few nights apart.  
  
"I don't know," he said, understanding she wanted an answer he could not give. "But I promise you I won't be away from you any longer than I have to be." He stroked her face and gave her a parting kiss. "Now go back to sleep."  
  
But she did not go back to sleep. Her saw her standing in the doorway of their home, watching him go. She grew smaller with every stride of his swift white horse, Arod. And as she faded from a white-gold speck into nothingness, he could not shake the feeling that he would never see her again. 


	2. Desperate measures

2  
  
When Legolas arrived in Rivendell a week later, he was awed by the magnificent splendor of Elrond's castle. He'd never been here before, and the last time he'd seen his uncle had been at his joining two hundred years before. The great structure of wood and stone rose all around him, the immense, torch-lit corridors echoing with his footsteps. Elaborate carvings adorned the walls and pillars, lions, stallions, and phoenixes that loomed over him. He reached out tentative hands to brush his fingers across some of them, amazed at their craftsmanship. How many eons had passed in the construction of this place? He was about to ask his guide, a merry-faced elf much younger than himself, but before he could, the elf in question opened an enormous black oak door.  
  
"In here, sir." He gestured through the opening with his torch.  
  
He stepped inside to find the strangest conglomeration of beings he had ever seen. His uncle, the proud King Elrond, sat at the head of the circle, his flowing red robes spilling over the edges of the golden throne upon which he sat. To his right sat an empty chair, presumably saved for the Legolas. To his left, Legolas recognized two from the race of men. Beside them sat a stubby, florid, pig-faced dwarf. Legolas could hardly contain his surprise at this. Dwarves and elves had never concerned themselves with one another, and as far as he knew, had never set foot in one another's lands, though they were related in some dim past. The idea of sitting in the presence of this filthy little earth monger and entertaining his opinion made his stomach turn. Frankly, the idea of even involving himself with the race of men made him feel ill at ease. Whatever had necessitated this meeting, he hoped it could be resolved quickly.  
  
"Ah, Legolas," cried his uncle when he saw him, "welcome. Please sit. It is good to see you again. It has been too long." He waved his hand at the empty seat beside him.  
  
Legolas bowed slightly to his uncle and nodded curtly to the others as he sat. An uncomfortable silence passed while the company studied each other. Apparently the dwarf shared his feelings of ill will, because he glared at Legolas with barely concealed disgust. Finally, his uncle said, "So, tell me, Legolas, how are things in Mirkwood? Is my brother well? Have you and Saryn been blessed with many happy, healthy Elflings?"  
  
"My father is fine," he answered, uncomfortable discussing his family in front of that abominable little dwarf. "As for Saryn and myself, we have not yet welcomed any children."  
  
"Ha!" roared the dwarf, slapping his knee. "A leaf-eating tree- coddler who has not yet produced untold numbers of his own line? I believe you're right, Your Majesty, dark times are upon us!" He shook with laughter, rocking to and fro in his chair. The men studied their feet in embarrassed silence.  
  
King Elrond shot him a withering look, and Legolas saw splendid visions of clouting the little worm over the head with his own axe, but before either could react to the blatant affront, the towering door swung open again and the same elf that had admitted Legolas into the room ushered in the fabled Gandalf the Grey and his companion, a tiny, dwarf-like creature none of them had ever seen before. All eyes turned to watch their progress as they entered.  
  
"Gandalf, Frodo," said Elrond rising from his chair. "I am pleased to see that you have come to us unharmed."  
  
"That was a very near thing, indeed," muttered Gandalf.  
  
Elrond nodded, unsurprised. "In any case, you are here now, and that is what matters. Sit. You are tired from your journey." He motioned to a smooth stone bench adjacent to the throne. "Perhaps I misspoke when I deemed you unharmed. How fares your wound, Frodo?"  
  
The creature gingerly touched the shoulder where the wound had been. "I am quite recovered," he responded in a small, soft voice. "Your Majesty is an excellent physician."  
  
The king smiled at the compliment, then turned serious once more. "Now then," he said, briskly clapping his hands, "I did not summon you here for idle chatter. A matter of grave concern has arisen that affects all of Middle Earth. Something must be done about it." He hesitated. "Alas, I am not the man for such explanations. That would be a task better suited to Gandalf." The king stepped back, and all eyes turned to Gandalf.  
  
"Yes," he began, sitting forward on his haunches and grasping his staff. "As many of you may know, there have been strange happenings in the land of Mordor. Mount Doom has sprung to life again after slumbering for more than three thousand years..and Sauron's fortress has been rebuilt." There were murmurs and gasps of surprise at this, but he continued. "I have long suspected why, but my fears were confirmed upon my visit to my young friend, Frodo the hobbit. The Ring of Power has awakened. Frodo, the ring, please."  
  
Everyone watched in fascination as the young hobbit stepped forward, pulling an object from a simple cloth pouch. With a sigh of relief, he placed the ring on a pedestal before the king and stepped back. There was a thunderstruck silence as they surveyed the object of untold lore.  
  
Legolas beheld it with wonder and a little disappointment. The Ring of Power had been the subject of endless speculation amongst he and his friends when they were Elflings. On the canvas of their imaginations, the infamous ring had assumed a terrible appearance befitting its monstrous power. The ring was forged, not of metal, but of blood, the blood of the millions slain at Sauron's hand. It glowed an iridescent red when worn, and when he wished, Sauron could transform the ring into a ruby dragon to set loose upon his adversaries.  
  
Yet there it was, a simple golden band. No blood, no dragon. Just an innocuous piece of metal like the ones human women used to adorn themselves. The hobbit, too, was a bit of a letdown. He had envisaged something a bit more, well, elfin. Instead, he resembled a taller, more couth dwarf.  
  
Beside him, one of the race of men spoke, "If this truly is the legendary ring of power, then let us use it against Sauron! With it we are assured of victory." He clenched his fist, his eyes ablaze with fervor.and something else. Legolas thought he detected a ember of cold greed in his eyes, and he felt his heart drop in his chest. He is the weak link among us, he thought, but said nothing.  
  
"No, Boromir," said Gandalf, dismissing the notion with a wave of his gnarled hand. "The Ring is too powerful. No matter how noble our intentions, it was crafted in evil, and it will work for our undoing. It will find our weakness and turn it against us. No, the Ring must be destroyed, cast back into the fires from whence it came."  
  
"But-," began Boromir.  
  
"But nothing," snapped Elrond. "Gandalf is right. Destroying it is the only way to ensure the safety of our peoples. The only question that remains to us now is who will carry out this momentous task?" He stopped, waiting for volunteers.  
  
"I'll go," said Boromir. "I'm strong enough to brave the dangers of the journey.  
  
"You?" scoffed Elrond. "No. I still remember the treachery of men all too clearly. If it hadn't been for man's greed, we would never have been endangered."  
  
"Then I'll go," announced the dwarf, rising to his feet and hefting up his battle axe. "After all, the best men come in small packages, something your wife would be pleased to discover, eh, tree-coddler?"  
  
"You are not worthy of the sweat from my wife's brow, you repulsive lout!" hissed Legolas, reaching for his sword.  
  
A babel of voices erupted, each man throwing recriminations against the other. Swords were drawn. Gandalf's feeble pleas for peace went unheard. The fragile coalition would've crumbled before it began had not Frodo climbed upon the pedestal and shouted, "EVERYONE STOP!"  
  
Words died in mid-syllable and everyone turned to stare at the exasperated hobbit. "I'll take the Ring," he continued, "I've carried it this far." He hopped off the pedestal, returning the ring to the safety of his pouch.  
  
The quiet determination of the hobbit shamed Legolas. The fate of his world was at stake, and here they were arguing amongst themselves like common hooligans. He sheathed his sword and stepped forward to offer his services, but one of the men was quicker.  
  
"I, Strider, would be honored to accompany you, hobbit. You shall have my sword."  
  
"And my bow," proclaimed Legolas.  
  
"And my axe," grunted the malodorous dwarf, who much to Legolas' dismay came to stand beside him. His hands ached to wrap themselves around the stubby little neck, but he restrained himself through sheer force of will.  
  
"And my strength," added Boromir.  
  
The king was just about to proclaim them the fellowship of the ring when another hobbit toppled through the window. "You can't go without me, Master Frodo," he called. He stood defiantly beside him, staring up at Elrond. "You can't part me from him.  
  
"So I see," muttered Elrond with a dry laugh.  
  
Just as he was about to ordain them the fellowship, two more hobbits came dashing through the door. "You're not leaving without us, Frodo," they yelled.  
  
"Alright, alright!" bellowed the king, throwing up his hands. "You can all go. Are there any other last-minute additions to the party?" When there were no further outbursts, he continued. "Then I hereby proclaim you the fellowship of the ring. You will set out in a week. In the meantime, I invite you to enjoy all the hospitality that Rivendell has to offer." With a final bow, he took leave of the group.  
  
3  
  
Later that night, long after the stars had ascended to their rightful places in the tapestry of night, Legolas sat cross-legged in front of his makeshift bower, a quill in one hand and a piece of dried leaf parchment in the other. His heart longed to be in the arms of his beloved Saryn, their bodies nestled together, the sweet pear scent of her skin in his nose. Instead he was struggled to find soothing words to send her to ease her worried mind.  
  
My Dearest Saryn,  
  
How my heart longs to tell you that I will be home soon, but alas, I cannot. I have been called upon to take part in a dangerous journey that I cannot refuse. I do not know when Fate will return me to you, but I promise I will return. My thoughts and heart will be with you always until we are reunited. Pray for me that I might return home soon, my love.  
  
All my love,  
  
Legolas  
  
He rolled up the scroll and sealed it with the wax crest of King Elrond. He knew it was hardly sufficient, but it would have to do. "Guard," he called out to the sleeping form below. He heard grumbling and clatterings as the sentry trudged up the hill to where he stood.  
  
"What?" he rasped. His eyes were puffy from sleep.  
  
"Take this letter to my wife, Saryn, in Mirkwood."  
  
"Now?" he whined?  
  
"Yes, now," he barked," and if you do it quickly, I'll throw in a few gildnar and forget to tell my uncle that I caught you sleeping on guard duty."  
  
At the thought of making a profit and escaping punishment for his laziness, the sentry brightened. "Yes, sir," he cried, snatching the scroll. Legolas watched him as he disappeared into the shadows. Turning, he spotted Gandalf approaching.  
  
"Hello, young Legolas," he said.  
  
"Hello, Gandalf. You're out late this night."  
  
"As are you, Master Legolas," he noted wryly.  
  
"I have many thoughts on my mind," he confessed.  
  
"As do we all. But I sense not all of your thoughts have to do with our quest."  
  
"You sense correctly. I worry for my wife, Saryn. We have never been separated for so long before. I miss her."  
  
"Ah, young love," mused Gandalf with a merry twinkle in his eye. Do not worry. She is safe."  
  
"I know she is safe, but I fear I will not see her again."  
  
"You may not," retorted Gandalf, "but that is a risk we all must take. But it is not about love that I have come to speak with you. It is about Gimli, the dwarf."  
  
"What of him?" Legolas asked suspiciously.  
  
"I know you don't like him, Legolas, and upon hearing his comments about your wife, I cannot blame you, but you must learn to live with him if we are to have a chance."  
  
"He insulted my wife, Gandalf-,"  
  
"There are more important considerations than the feelings of your wife at this moment. If we fail, Middle Earth will be crushed under Sauron's heel. Promise me you will put your feelings about Gimli aside for now." Gandalf grabbed him by the arm and fixed him with a piercing gaze.  
  
"I promise."  
  
Gandalf held him for a moment more. "Good," he said, satisfied. "Goodnight then, Master Legolas.  
  
"Goodnight, Gandalf.  
  
As he watched the old wizard go, he could not help but think he had made a promise he could not keep.  
  
4  
  
Six days later and less than five hours before her husband set off on his epic journey, Saryn sat listlessly overlooking their private glade. She ate an apple, but did not taste it. Her voice, usually lifted from dawn until dusk in joyous song, no longer sang. Even the crickets had grown silent in sympathy for her loneliness. Oh Legolas, I wish you were here with me. I have such wonderful news. She stroked her belly absently. A child. His child. Their child. After two hundred years. She could hardly believe it when the beaming midwife had told her the news. And now he was not here to share in her joy.  
  
As she gathered the apple core and turned to go inside, she spotted a speck on the horizon. Legolas, she thought, and hope soared in her chest. Yet after watching for a moment, she realized it was not him, and sadness overwhelmed her again. Whoever it was coming this way. She stood waiting.  
  
As he approached, she realized it was an elf. "Lady Saryn?" he asked, dismounting slowly.  
  
"Yes." She was suddenly filled with an awful dread that he was going to tell her Legolas was dead.  
  
"I bring word from your husband." He held out the parchment.  
  
She took it with numb and trembling hands. As she read it, her eyes filled with tears. "No," she choked, and ran inside the house.  
  
The sentry, a simple lad named Telvryn, stood nonplussed for a moment before following her into the bower. "M'lady, why do you weep? Your husband is fine. I saw him with my own eyes."  
  
She made no answer, only darted around the bower throwing food into a sack.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"Going to find my husband," she snapped, grabbing Legolas' extra bow and quiver.  
  
"You can't do that, he spluttered, "it's too dangerous."  
  
"Watch me." She grabbed his extra blade and headed for the door.  
  
"I cannot allow you to do this," he said, grabbing her arms.  
  
"You would dare touch a woman with child?" she shrieked, twisting away.  
  
He recoiled as though he had touched fire. "I'm sorry," he quailed, "I didn't know."  
  
"It's alright," she said, regaining some composure. "No one knows yet. But you see, I have a right to be with my husband, and I mean to be."  
  
"But m'lady-,"  
  
"Shut up. 'A woman with child shall not be parted from her husband until seven days after the child has drawn its first breath' True?"  
  
"True, but-,"  
  
"Then I am going." She shouldered past him, calling to her sable stallion, Rhydon. He had been a gift from Legolas on the anniversary of their joining two years ago. She heard his muffled hoofbeats and soft neighings as he came at a full gallop.  
  
Telvryn stood indecisively in the doorway. It would be madness to let her go, but he knew he could not stop her. His conscience would not allow him to abandon her to this folly alone. "I'm going with you," he sighed, convinced he was going to his death.  
  
"As you wish," she said, leaping nimbly onto the back of the waiting steed.  
  
"Fly, Rhydon, fly to Rivendell," she commanded, leaning against the heavy, rippling muscles of his back.  
  
Four hours before Legolas greeted the first day of his journey, Saryn flew toward Rivendell. 


	3. Evil in the Dark

Legolas Greenleaf sat astride his horse, humming tunelessly to himself. They had set forth at down, while the sun was still a bleary red eye on the horizon. Now, it was high in the cloudless cerulean sky, nearly noon. Soon they would stop for lunch. His stomach rumbled greedily at the thought of nourishment. They'd had only bread and water before departing, and it had not been sufficient to stifle his gnawing hunger. His sharp eyes intently surveyed the horizon for signs of movement besides their own, but he could find none. In the distance, the gloomy Forest of Solitude beckoned. They would reach its borders just before nightfall.  
  
"Hail, young Legolas," greeted Strider, riding up alongside him. "How are things?"  
  
"Hello, Strider," murmured Legolas, "I have no complaints."  
  
"Yet you say nothing. What troubles you?" he cajoled.  
  
Legolas frowned. "Troubles me? I cannot say. Many worries prey on my mind."  
  
"Do you question your wife's fidelity?"  
  
"That is not among them," he barked, points of his ears reddening in anger.  
  
Strider held up his hands, chagrined. He'd meant no insult. "Peace, friend, I meant no harm. I can see no other reason for such melancholy if she yet lives."  
  
They rode in thoughtful silence for a while, Legolas listening to the steady squeak-thup of the saddle and stirrups as they chafed back and forth against smooth horseflesh. He could not articulate his fear even to himself. It was a cold, nebulous dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach the moment he'd read the letter from his father, an insidious tendril of horror the curled around his heart. At length he spoke.  
  
"I do not know why I fear; I only know that I do," he said at last.  
  
Strider pursed his lips in contemplation. "Methinks you suffer from mere love pangs, my friend."  
  
"No, it is more than that," he insisted. "I know it."  
  
"You're not the only man here who's left a loved one behind," reasoned his companion.  
  
"Yes, but you are accustomed to being parted from your beloved. I am not," he retorted waspishly, instantly regretting his words. This uncertain dread had made his normally jovial demeanor not a little insensitive. "Forgive me-," he began, but Strider cut him off.  
  
"Point taken," he said, his face growing stiff and inscrutable. Well, I think I'll go up and have a word with Gandalf. Ride on." He nudged his horse ahead without a backwards glance.  
  
Brilliant Legolas, he chastised himself. At the rate you're going, you'll have more enemies behind you than in front. Get a hold of yourself.  
  
They did indeed stop for lunch within the hour, much to the delight of all, but especially to the ravenous hobbits, who never seemed to tire of eating. They yelled and chattered gaily at one another as they went about preparing the repast. Their stubby little hands and feet flew as they spread their blankets on the ground beside a small, clear stream. As if by magic, the little fellows produced an incredible quantity of food-tomatoes, apples, bread, dried bacon, and even a fig pudding. Legolas laughed in spite of himself.  
  
"The key to being prepared for anything is a full stomach," admonished the stoutest of the hobbits.  
  
"Right you are, Sam Gamgee," agreed Frodo happily.  
  
"In that case," observed Boromir,"we shall always be prepared for even the gravest eventuality."  
  
The party erupted in laughter, and everyone was soon engaged in happy conversation. The lively hobbits regaled everyone with tales and lore from the Shire, and Legolas sang the saga of Valinor in his clear, clarion voice. Even the dour Gimli was grudgingly impressed. The hour passed as one of the happiest Legolas could remember since leaving Mirkwood. As with all good things, the comfortable luncheon soon ended. The trash was collected and the blankets, pots, and pans put away. Before mounting up, Legolas extended an olive branch to Strider.  
  
"I apologize for my rudeness earlier," he said, extending his hand. "I have not been myself lately."  
  
Strider eyed the outstretched hand dubiously before taking it in his own. "We have all been sorely tested in these strange times. Apology accepted."  
  
"The Elf-folk are notoriously loose-lipped, growled Gimli. "In fact, their lips aren't the only thing about them that's quite loose. How else do you explain the fact that there's too damn many of them?"  
  
"Perhaps your poor hygiene explains why there are so few of you, you filthy little rodent," Legolas shot back. Whatever goodwill Gimli had generated during the pleasant meal evaporated. He itched to unfetter his bow against this hideous little fool.  
  
"Gentlemen, please," sighed Gandalf, eyeing Legolas. "No more fighting amongst ourselves. We are doomed if you cannot learn to coexist." He turned and resumed the slow trek toward the Forest of Solitude.  
  
The unlikely group traveled until darkness forced them to stop for the night, less than one hundred yards from the perimeter of the forest. Everyone busied themselves with preparing the campsite. Frodo set up the sparse bedding while Sam and the other hobbits set about collecting kindling for a fire. Strider and Boromir hunted for water. Gimli was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Legolas was intent on caring for the horses when the hackles on the back of his neck began to rise in apprehension. He turned around slowly, straining his eyes and ears to see what lay beyond in the darkness. A soft, stealthy rustling could be heard. Reckless feet and whispers. He cocked his head, automatically reaching for his bow. It sounded like-  
  
"ORCS!!" shouted Gimli as he emerged from a thick copse of trees, trying to pull up his trousers, draw his sword, and run at the same time. The stuff that dwarves are made of flapped in the breeze as he ran, and had it not been for the twenty orcs chasing him, Legolas would have laughed himself blind.  
  
Legolas' mirth at his dwarf companion's torment did not last long. Orcs were no laughing matter. Short, misshapen, gray creatures who moved in the night, they were a stupid but powerful beast. They hated the fair, golden-haired elves, for they were as beautiful as the orcs were hideous. They swarmed forth from the dense foliage, their harsh, guttural voices resounding in the cool night air.  
  
Legolas drew his arrow and took aim at the orc directly behind Gimli. For just a moment he was tempted to let his bow stray to Gimli's heart, but he pushed the thought away and let fly. The arrow struck home in the orc's beady green eye, and it fell with a grating screech. As soon as the first arrow was released, his swift hand fitted another, instinct replacing thought. "Gimli," he screamed, "stop worrying over your pants and get out of the way!"  
  
Gimli threw himself to the side just as another arrow from Legolas found its mark in the heart of another foe. Strider, Boromir, and the hobbits at last joined the fray, and the piercing clash of metal against metal rang through the field. Legolas winced as cold, black, gelatinous orc blood splattered on his neck. When the orcs drew too close for his bow, he unsheathed his sword and dove into his enemies with animal ferocity. He had no intention of losing this battle. If he should be captured, death would not come quickly for him. The orcs would torture and mutilate him in vengeance for his beauty. Before he died, they would cut out his eyes and tongue and castrate him. They would revel in the ruin of his body, and when he was no more, they would leave his carcass for the vultures of Mordor. He fought for his life.  
  
When the last of the orcs was vanquished at the tip of Strider's blade and the body fell to the ground with a meaty thud, everyone heaved a sigh of relief. Most were splattered in great clots of orc blood to the elbows. Runners of sticky black goop hung from the ends of Legolas' flaxen hair. His skin crawled beneath the drying splotches on his skin. He felt his gorge rising. If he didn't rid himself of this filth soon, he was going to vomit. He dropped his weapons on the ground and headed for the river.  
  
Gimli was already there washing his hands. He started at the sound of footsteps, but when he saw that it was only Legolas, he relaxed. "Come to laugh at my misfortune, have you?"  
  
"No." He hadn't. He only wanted to cleanse his body from the defilement it had suffered. He knelt down and plunged his head beneath the murky water. When he pulled it out again, Gimli was still watching him.  
  
"I suppose I should thank you for saving my life," he said diffidently.  
  
"You are of the fellowship. We are weaker if one falls. I was only protecting the quest."  
  
"Perhaps so, but I still offer my apologies for my conduct. I would like to begin anew." He extended his hand.  
  
"On one condition."  
  
Gimli raised an eyebrow. "What?"  
  
"When we return from this quest, you will accompany me to Mirkwood to apologize to my wife." He stripped of his soiled clothes as he spoke.  
  
"Alright," he huffed.  
  
Legolas' face broke into an enormous grin. "You have answered one question, though."  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"Elves are bigger than dwarfs in ALL areas."  
  
"Not for long," Gimli muttered with a wicked sneer.  
  
Legolas paid him no heed. He was anticipating a quick dip in the cool water to refresh himself. He realized what Gimli was talking about as soon as he hit the water. The ribald dwarf stood on the bank roar with laughter as Legolas yelped in surprise at the frigid water.  
  
"I told you," cackled Gimli as he scurried, spluttering, from the water. Legolas  
  
merely spared him a baleful glare as he dressed. When they returned to camp, Gandalf  
  
assigned a watch. The rest of the night passed in fitful dreams. 


	4. Midnight Conversations

Saryn sat in desultory silence before the fire. She and Telvryn had ridden for nearly twenty-four hours without stopping, and they were both exhausted. Still, they were both wide awake with their own thoughts. The dancing flames flickered over her wan, pinched face as she prodded the logs with a charred twig. Only her eyes were bright, hard chips of blue mica that reflected the soft moonlight. "I know what it is that chases sleep from my weary brow," she said at last, "but what troubles you?"  
  
Telvryn propped himself up on his elbow. He rolled a dead leaf between his thumb and forefinger. "I am pondering this madness upon which we have embarked," he answered, studying her.  
  
"The name for this madness is love, and its hand cannot be stayed," she told him, her blue eyes clouding for an instant at the recollection of what she sought.  
  
"Tell me, how did you come to be joined with Legolas?" He sat up and crossed his legs.  
  
"Ah," she sighed, her body relaxing at the mention of such a pleasant subject, "that is a story I will gladly tell." She leaned back against the trunk of the proud oak tree behind her and smoothed out the delicate hem of her gown. "I first laid eyes upon him," she began, her eyes growing misty and distant as they retreated into memory, "at the Festival of Rejuvenation in 1063. The whole village had been invited to attend, and the main glade of Mirkwood was thronged with people. Spring had come again, and the air was redolent with the scent of pine and grass."  
  
"All of the local village girls had busied themselves for weeks preparing for their meeting with the king and Prince Legolas. My father, the local textile merchant, had been swamped with requests for the most expensive and exotic of fabrics. Even the poorest girls with hardly a gildnar to their name sought small swatches of finery to use as ribbons for their hair. Everyone knew that the prince was the most eligible bachelor in the elven kingdoms, and every girl held hopes of catching his eye."  
  
"I, myself, primped and fretted along with the rest of them, but I held little hope for attracting his attention. My mother died when I was small, so my father depended on me to help him run his shop. As such, I never learned the finer points of femininity, like sewing. I spent most of my time delivering baskets of fabric to customers and tending our home."  
  
"Nevertheless, on that night, I stood with the rest of the guests in the royal receiving line. It stretched from one end of the glade to the other with no end in sight. Guards lined the route to control some of the more overzealous girls. There were many who fainted before ever reaching Legolas, and they were carried away. The line was abuzz with nervous chatter, and wild rumors circulated about the prince's appearance. Some said he had a face that glowed like fire. Others said he was an angel from heaven."  
  
"When my turn came to greet the royal family, time stopped when I saw Legolas. Though his face didn't glow with fire, he was indeed an angel. My knees went weak, and I would've fallen during my curtsy had he not steadied me. There were titters of scornful laughter behind me, but he seemed not to have heard. His hand grasped my arm just above the elbow.  
  
'Pray, what is your name?' he asked, his cool gray eyes searching my face.  
  
"My voice seemed to come from far away as I answered him. 'Saryn.'  
  
'Saryn,' he said slowly, as though he were tasting it. 'Saryn, I'm certain we will meet again.' He let go of my elbow and moved on to the next guest."  
  
"For the rest of the night our eyes never strayed far from one another, seeking one another like the trees stretch forth their branches in search of rain. Hour after hour, the line went on. Finally, long after the torches had been lit to ward off darkness, the last guest was greeted, and the orchestra was preparing to play the last song of the night. His eyes sought me out, and when they had found me, he started toward me, a pleased smile upon his face. But before he got far, he was beset by three harpies in the finest silk gowns. I despaired then of ever dancing with him, but to my surprise he shooed them away and hurried to my side, bowing low.  
  
'And now, my lady, I have been waiting all evening to ask for this dance,' he said, offering me his arm.  
  
"I accepted in a near-swoon. As we began to reel and waltz in time with the lively notes of the lyre and harp, I knew my heart was lost to all others. I was deaf to everything but his soft voice and blind to all but his beautiful face staring back at me. Faster and faster we spun, arms linked. After a while, I could no longer feel the ground beneath my feet."  
  
"Despite the magic of that night, I was sure I would not see him again. I returned to my job delivering fabrics. I was mistaken. Three days after the festival, I answered a knock at the door to find Prince Legolas with a lily in his hand. He invited me to walk with him. I did, forgetting my chores and all else. This went on night after night. Finally, my poor father, up to his ears in dirty laundry and dishes, forbid me to go with Legolas until I finished my chores. Once I did, my father quite approved of the relationship."  
  
"Legolas' father, on the other hand, was not so pleased. Though he was glad to see his bachelor son enamored with a member of the fairer sex, he had hoped it would be a lady of finer breeding, like Lady Gerlise, a duchess who lived in Lothlorien. In vain, he pleaded with him to renounce me, but Legolas would not hear it, and his mother, Queen Jaza, sided with her son. Thus, the king could do nothing."  
  
"When Legolas presented me with a token of favor six months later, the whole kingdom was in a furor over the news that the prince's beloved was a modest merchant's daughter. The elite maidens of Mirkwood shunned me, unable to accept that someone beneath their station had captured the heart of the fairest prince in all elfdom. Worse yet, their mothers took their business elsewhere. Soon my father was in great debt. For the sake of his livelihood, he ordered me to end my romance with Legolas. I could not. Desperate, I confided in Legolas. He soon appointed my father outfitter to the crown prince and saved his business. My father serves him faithfully to this day."  
  
"On the first anniversary of our meeting, Legolas presented me with a token of promise and asked for my hand in joining. I accepted, and plans were made to be joined after the fall harvest. We were overjoyed, but his father was not, for when the wealthy maidens of the village learned of our betrothal, they began rumors that I was impure and unfaithful to Legolas. Legolas knew them to be untrue, but the king, desperate to maneuver his son into a more desirable pairing with the duchess, seized upon them. He told Legolas that if he wished to marry me, I must consent to being examined by midwives to vouch for my purity."  
  
"Legolas was furious with his father for questioning my virtue and flatly refused to honor his father's wishes. His mother, too, was horrified, and beseeched him to change his mind, but he would not. Every day the midwives came, and every day Legolas forbid them from touching me. It was out of love as well as a little shame, for I was impure, but not because of any misdeed. Legolas had deflowered me in the palace garden three weeks before and wished to keep the matter private."  
  
"Things might never have been resolved had not his mother intervened. She told the king that since Legolas was her only son, she wished more than anything else to see him joined to the one he loved. If the king would not grant her request, she would leave the castle forever. Faced with his wife's threats and pleas, King Thranduil relented. We were joined in the fall of 1064. From that day forward, we have never been long apart from one another. Do you understand now why I must find him?"  
  
He nodded. He did. Though reason told him there was no hurry, his heart spoke more urgently. He would help her find Legolas. He had one last question. "Have you made peace with the king?"  
  
She sighed. "He has softened, but he will never love me as a daughter. He has been impatient for grandchildren, and there have been rumblings about the castle that he would ask Legolas to declare an annulment on the grounds that I was barren. Hopefully the fact that I am with child will restore me into his tenuous favor." She stroked her belly for a moment. "At last I am weary. Will there be anything else?"  
  
"No," he said, stifling a yawn.  
  
"Goodnight then," she said, getting to her feet.  
  
"Goodnight." He watched her until she'd settled beneath her blanket. Then he put out the fire. The night engulfed them. 


	5. Unexpected Betrayal

With the outskirts of Rivendell less than a day away and visible on the horizon, Saryn experienced morning sickness for the first time. She had just thrown her rucksack over the horse's flank when her stomach began to spasm. She had just enough time to step back from the horse before she vomited just as neat as you please between her feet. She grimaced at the bitter taste of bile in her throat. She heard Telvryn catch his breath in surprise behind her.  
  
"M'lady, are you alright?" he cried, rushing to her side.  
  
"Yes, I'm alright," she said weakly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I think it's only morning sickness. May I have some water, please?"  
  
He quickly unshouldered his canteen strap and handed it to her. "Here."  
  
She took it gratefully and sipped the cool water, swishing it around and spitting it out to rid her mouth of the sour tang. When she was done, she handed the water back to him. "Thank you," she said, mounting her horse.  
  
"M'lady," Telvryn called, scrambling to keep up with her, "even if it is only morning sickness, all this heavy traveling cannot be good for you or the child. You should reconsider this journey for both your sakes."  
  
"You are quite right, Telvryn, but is a risk I must take. I fear that if Legolas tarries too long, the king will hatch a plot to do away with me."  
  
"You think King Thranduil will have you killed?" he asked incredulously.  
  
"No," she snorted in contempt. "More likely he would have me locked away in some tower and tell Legolas that I became ill with fever and died. He hasn't the stomach for murder. After a brief period of mourning, he would use his considerable wiles to induce his son into a new courtship. Damn Thranduil. I wouldn't be surprised if such a plan wasn't already in his mind when he sent Legolas away. No, I intend to stay far out of his reach for now."  
  
They continued in companionable silence. Saryn mulled over the discussion between them in her mind as she admired the gorgeous plain stretching before her. Lush grasses waved in the mid-morning breeze. Here and there, clusters of verdant, fragrant trees dotted the landscape, some ringed with purple wildflowers. Overhead, cardinals darted through the crisp blue sky, tiny shafts of flying fire.  
  
Yes, she mused as she rode along, the old king would gladly do away with me and not feel even a twinge of guilt. That much was certain. Many times over the past two hundred years, she had seen the king looking at her the way a jackal eyes a wounded gazelle just before the kill. No matter how happy she made Legolas, she would never be good enough for the king. Yet he dared not act for fear of enraging Legolas, his only son and heir. Legolas, it seemed, sensed his evil intent, for he never left her alone with his father, even for a moment. Yes, as dangerous as this trek surely was, it was far better than remaining in Mirkwood within reach of the jackal's hungry, powerful jaws.  
  
"Look," said Telvryn, pointing to an archway on the horizon, "the gates of Rivendell."  
  
The gigantic stone gates of Rivendell erupted from the earth like the bones of some long-dead leviathan poking out of their tomb. Built long before memory, only Gandalf, Saruman, and Elrond knew their origins. Behind those massive doors lie the great elven city of Rivendell, a place of peace and prosperity for all elves within its walls, a city ruled by the wisest and most just of all elves for more than three millennia. In front of the gates were two square-jawed sentries mounted upon beautiful roan stallions.  
  
At the sight of them, Saryn urged Rhydon into a gallop. She suddenly felt giddy with excitement. Here at last she would find answers to her questions, questions that had festered in her mind for three weeks. She laughed, a high, tinkling sound, as the wind caressed her face. She was exhilarated, she was flying on the wings of her stallion. For a moment, just a moment, she was free again.  
  
She pulled her steed to a skittering stop before the pair of stern guards blocking the gate and waited for Telvryn to catch up. The relaxed a little when they saw one of their own, but they still regarded her warily.  
  
"Who are you, and what business have you in Rivendell?" the taller of the two demanded, lightly brandishing his blade.  
  
"I am Lady Saryn, wife of Prince Legolas, and I wish to speak with King Elrond regarding family business," she said, sitting ramrod straight on the horse. "And for Valinor's sake, put that sword away."  
  
The two sentries exchanged knowing glances, and the sentry who had questioned her sheathed his sword. Something in the way the guards had looked at each other caused a cramp of fear in Saryn's stomach, but she said nothing. The sentries bowed in deference. "Right this way, my lady," they said, standing aside so she could enter the great city.  
  
They were escorted to Elrond.  
  
8  
  
Saryn's reaction to the great city and magnificent castle was little different from that of her husband. She goggled in unabashed wonder at the unrivaled majesty of Rivendell and its lush, ivy-choked forests. The thunderous roar of a waterfall could be heard as the same elf who had delivered Legolas to his fate led them through a labyrinthine maze up musty staircases and moldering corridors to the sanctuary of King Elrond's private chambers. He opened the polished obsidian door with a flourish. "My lady, the king," he said, bowing low and hurrying away.  
  
Saryn and Telvryn entered the large room to find the king seated in front of a roaring fire. Behind him loomed a behemoth four-poster bed of the finest cherry, topped with a white silk canopy. Opposite him was a spacious balcony accessed by two glass doors. Through them, the waterfall could be seen, the roiling, churning white water cascading down over its precipitous lip to crash upon the jagged rocks below with an anguished bellow. It was at this that the king was presently directing his gaze. He seemed not to notice their presence at all.  
  
"King Elrond?" she ventured at last, taking a tentative step forward.  
  
He started in surprise. "Saryn, what an unexpected surprise! Come, niece!"  
  
She came to stand before him and knelt for a moment before rising again. "Your Majesty, I have come on an errand of dire importance. I must speak with you."  
  
"I believe I know already the cause for your visit, but come, let us sit on the balcony while we speak," he answered, ushering them onto the wide marble balcony. From here, the spray from the waterfall misted on their faces. He gestured to a red velvet divan and they sat. The king sat across from them in his eiderdown chair. He looked at her expectantly.  
  
"Your Majesty, I have come in search of Legolas. I must find him.  
  
Elrond gave a slight nod. "Mmm, alas, that I cannot tell you."  
  
"But why not?" she pleaded. "Surely you must know."  
  
"It is not a question of knowledge, but rather of necessity," he conceded.  
  
"But Your Majesty, I have a right to be with him, and I mean to claim it," she countered, cheeks flushing angrily.  
  
"By what right do you demand this knowledge?" he asked, intrigued by her obstinacy.  
  
"I am with child, sire."  
  
"Indeed," he mused, caught off guard. "Congratulations."  
  
"Thank you, sire. Now do you see why I must go to him?"  
  
"Under normal circumstances, you would be right; I would be compelled to grant what you seek. But these are not normal times, and I will not tell you."  
  
"What do you mean? I demand an answer," she said, her voice rising.  
  
"AND I WILL NOT GIVE IT!" he thundered, leaping from his seat. The reaction was so unexpected that both she and Telvryn cringed for an instant.  
  
"AND I WILL SIT HERE UNTIL YOU DO!" she howled back, all royal protocol forgotten in the fight for her husband.  
  
They locked eyes for a moment in a battle of wills. Finally Elrond's shoulders slumped. "Would the Lords of Elbereth that I could tell you, but I cannot. It is better that you do not know. I beg of you, return to Mirkwood to King Thranduil. You will be safe there until Legolas returns," he beseeched her.  
  
"You know that is not so," she countered. "Even now he plots for my undoing."  
  
"Untrue," he spat, but he could not meet her eyes as he said it, and she knew he was lying.  
  
"If I return to Mirkwood, I shall never been seen again."  
  
"My brother is a good man. His only downfall is that he meddles exceedingly in the affairs of his son's heart," admitted Elrond.  
  
"He is blind to all but his own wishes. Only with my husband will I be safe. You KNOW this."  
  
"Yes, but I cannot let you go to him. Especially not now. A woman in your condition would never survive Mordor-"  
  
Realizing what he'd just said, Elrond's face grew grave and miserable. "And now that you know where he is, I'm afraid I cannot allow you to leave. Guards," he called, and two slender elves appeared in an instant. "Take Lady Saryn to the guest tower. Give her all that she desires, but she is not to leave her room for any reason. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, sir," they said in unison. Without a word, they grabbed her by they arms and began leading her away. She resisted but a moment before surprised grief overtook her and she burst into miserable sobs.  
  
Elrond looked at her in guilty compassion. "I know, and I am sorry, believe me. One day you will understand and forgive me," he soothed, wiping away her tears. He nodded to the guards, and they led her away.  
  
To Telvryn he said, "Dismissed." 


	6. Hero Born

The tower in which she was confined was not a cold and dreary place. It was adorned with the finest woven tapestries and rugs. A roaring fire blazed on the huge stone hearth, and to the left of that sat a simple wooden table holding all manner of food and drink. Opposite the hearth were a soft, plush chair and a curtained four-poster bed with a purple lace canopy. A nightstand to the left held a pitcher of water and a washbasin. On the floor sat a beaten brass chamber pot. King Elrond had provided for her every comfort, it seemed, but she knew she would not be happy here.  
  
She sat up on the bed and rubbed her raw, watery eyes. Her wrenching sobs had tapered off to mere snufflings, but her chest was still tight with grief. She took in her surroundings. On unsteady feet, she wandered around the room, checking for any means of escape. At first, the high arched window had given her a flicker of hope, but one look at the dizzying one hundred and fifty foot drop to the river below had quickly dashed it.  
  
She was still numb from the shock of this sudden betrayal. This was the last thing she had expected. She had anticipated his refusal, of course, but not this imprisonment. Whatever the reason Legolas had set out for Mordor, it was clear King Elrond wanted no interference of any sort. But why would he send Legolas to the dead lands of Mordor? No living thing dared enter that accursed land for fear of being taken captive by the evil orcs who lurked behind every hill and withered tree stump. It would be madness to order him there. In the dim past of her childhood, she recalled the legends of the dark lord Sauron, a mighty demon king who had enslaved nearly all of Middle Earth before a last desperate alliance of men and elves led by King Elrond challenged him upon the lifeless slopes of Mount Doom. By courage and might and the grace of the Lords of Elbereth, the demon was defeated and vanished from the land. Though no one had ever seen them, many inhabitants of Middle Earth swore that the ruins of his awesome fortress, Barak-Dur, still lie smoldering in that wasted land. Perhaps even Sauron himself still skulked amid the shadowy remnants of his ravaged castle. Into what madness had the great Elrond descended to order Legolas into that damned place? Had the whole world gone mad? She must escape.  
  
She paced furiously back and forth as her sharp mind worked out possible escape scenarios. She tried the obvious routes first. Were there guards outside her door? "Guards," she called.  
  
The door opened and one of the guards who'd brought her here entered. "Yes m'lady?" he said.  
  
Blast it, she thought to herself, but out loud she said, "I'm feeling quite dirty and sore from the road. Can you please bring me a bath?"  
  
The guard snapped his heels together smartly. "Yes, m'lady." He turned on his heel and left, closing the door behind him. Her keen ears discerned the metallic scrape of a key being turned in the lock. Even if the door was now unguarded, there was no help there.  
  
The window had already been ruled out. While she waited for the guards to deliver her bath, she searched for trapdoors or hidden passages Elrond may have forgotten. Though, she crawled around on the floor from one end of the room to the other, there was nothing. By the time the guards had returned with her bath, she was grimy and dispirited.  
  
"Will there be anything else, m'lady?" inquired the guard.  
  
"No," she said, smiling ruefully.  
  
The guard nodded, then hesitated a moment. "M'lady?"  
  
"Yes?" She was tired; she wished he would leave.  
  
He shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry about all this. I'm just-"  
  
"Following orders," she finished for him. "I know. I'm very tired. Please go."  
  
"Goodnight, m'lady." He turned a left, closing the door behind him.  
  
She waited until she heard the grinding click of the key in the lock before stripping off her filthy gown and stepping into the steaming tub. She hissed in pleasure as the hot water went to work on her aching muscles. She sank down, immersing her hair in the water. When she resurfaced, she was touched to see that King Elrond had sent up dainty perfumed soaps and another white gown. I know your heart is in the right place, Your Majesty, she thought wistfully, but I cannot stay here.  
  
"Oh Legolas," she said to the empty room, "why have you abandoned me?" She wept silently as she bathed. She just wanted her husband.  
  
10  
  
Telvryn listened to the heart-wrenching sobs drifting down to the barracks from the tower for three days. Finally he could take no more. While the other sentries snored lustily, he crept from his bed into the cool night air. The wind whispered through the trees, as though trying to alert the king to his treachery. He cursed it under his breath as he ventured toward the stables. Acting as naturally as he could, he went inside.  
  
The sweet smell of hay and horse dung filled his nose. He could hear the faint whinnying of the horses as they dreamed inside their stalls. He moved as stealthily as he could between the rows, looking for Rhydon. Tails swished in the darkness, and one steed gave an offended snort when he drew too near. He saw Rhydon in the last stall on the right, his ears flicking impatiently, almost as though he had been waiting for him. The horse jammed his muzzle through the slats as he approached. Telvryn stroked him gently. "Easy, boy," he murmured. Just as he was reaching for the latch on the gate, a voice spoke behind him.  
  
"Telvryn, what are you doing?"  
  
He spun around to find himself looking into the face of Jeren, his fellow sentry and close friend. He mustered what he hoped was a convincing smile. "I was just admiring this beautiful steed."  
  
Jeren turned to look into the stall. "Oh, that one. You have good taste, my friend. One of the finer horses I've ever seen. Legolas certainly spared no expense."  
  
Telvryn laughed. "I must confess I was quite envious of him during our journey here. Do you think I could take him for a ride?"  
  
"Now you know I can't let you. King Elrond would kill me," he rebuked.  
  
"Please?" he wheedled, "He probably needs the exercise."  
  
"Nope. No can do." Jeren stood firm.  
  
"Well, can I at least groom him then?" he pleaded, biting his lip.  
  
"I don't see why not," Jeren relented. "Stay here while I get the grooming supplies." He jogged off to the tack room in search of the brushes and hoof picks.  
  
Telvryn searched frantically for a weapon. He knew he didn't have much time. He spotted one in the form of a rusty shovel leaning against an adjacent stall. He hurried over and placed his body in front of it just as Jeren returned with his arms full of grooming supplies.  
  
"Here you are," he said cheerfully, holding out the supplies.  
  
Telvryn didn't move. He stood frozen, bracing himself for what he was about to do.  
  
"Well, go on, take it," said Jeren, his brow creasing in confusion.  
  
"Jeren, is that a sore on the horse's leg?" he asked pointing toward the animal with one hand while he slowly curled his fingers around the shovel with the other.  
  
"Where?" he asked, turning to look.  
  
As soon as he turned his head, Telvryn brought the shovel from behind his back and struck Jeren in the back of the head. The shovel connected with its intended mark with a sickening, heavy thuk. Please don't let me have killed him, he prayed as Jeren crumpled to the floor. He tossed the now dented shovel aside and moved quickly to bind and gag him with his own cloak.  
  
"I'm sorry, my old friend," he breathed, working quickly to strip the unconscious form of its uniform. That done, he open the horse stall holding Rhydon and dragged him inside. Making sure no one was about, he stripped off his clothes and quickly stepped into Jeren's uniform. That done, he wadded up his clothes and tossed them into the corner.  
  
"Now you stay here," he said, wagging his finger at Rhydon, "and when you hear Saryn yell, you come running, you hear?" He stepped out of the stall and closed it behind him, leaving it unlocked. "Wish me luck," he said, popping on the metal helmet and visor Jeren always wore. With a final prayer, he turned and dashed out of the stable.  
  
He emerged from the stable just as another sentry was coming to fetch him. "Are you ready, Jeren?" the newcomer asked. "It's your shift to guard Lady Saryn."  
  
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. If this fellow figured out it wasn't Jeren under the helmet, it would be all over. He'd be joining Saryn in her tower prison faster than he could draw breath. It was a long shot this plan would work at all. He was quite prepared to be caught and flogged for this. Still, he had to try. He couldn't just leave her up there suffering like that.  
  
He felt sweat dripping from the end of his nose as they passed the immobile palace guards, their faces locked in rictuses of chronic vigilance. He suddenly felt very claustrophobic under the helmet, and his chest tightened in panic. Beside him, his companion chattered on incessantly about the weather and the gorgeous elf maidens one could see bathing at the river on Saturday nights. He grunted noncommittal replies, wishing he would shut up.  
  
"You're awfully quiet today, Jeren. Is something wrong?" his friend asked at last.  
  
"I think I have a touch of the human cold," he croaked, distorting his voice as much as possible. "I'll be alright, though."  
  
"Say, you DO sound awful. I'll have my wife bring you some of her delicious tea later. Fix you right up."  
  
"Thanks, I appreciate it," he replied, relieved to see they had arrived at their destination.  
  
"Well, I'll leave the two of you to it then," said his escort, clapping him on the back. "I'll bring that tea up later."  
  
Telvryn allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Now came the hard part.  
  
"Good morning," said his duty mate. I hate the dawn to midnight shift, don't you?"  
  
He made no answer, and that was the last thing that passed between them for the next hour. Time crawled by on broken knees for him while he waited to make his move. I can't believe I'm doing this, he groaned to himself. Finally, he could delay it no longer. "Did you hear something?" he asked, cocking his head.  
  
"No," came the answer.  
  
"Well, the way she's been wailing the last couple of days, maybe we should check on her. King Elrond would be furious if she killed herself on our watch."  
  
"I'm telling you I don't hear anything," insisted the other, annoyed.  
  
"Well, I do," he snapped, "and it's better to be safe than sorry."  
  
His compatriot sighed. "Alright, but I'm telling you she's fine." He pulled an iron keyring from his pocket and sorted through the contents until he came upon the right one and jammed it in the lock.  
  
As soon as the tumbler pulled back from the lock, he made his move. He grabbed the distracted guard's head and rammed it twice in quick succession into the stout oak door. The guard slumped to the floor, and Telvryn pushed open the door.  
  
11  
  
While Telvryn was engaged in his daring rescue attempt, Saryn, too, was making plans for an escape. For the last hour, she'd been doggedly prying at the large door hinges with a fork. She'd accomplished nothing other than bending the fork and bloodying her hands. Tossing the mangled utensil aside, she turned her attention once again to the long window. It seemed her only hope.  
  
That would be suicide and you know it, said the tiny voice of reason left inside her head. Very likely it would be. But maybe not. She took a closer look outside the window. The river below wound around the castle like a sparkling silver ribbon. Even from this distance, she could see that the fall would break numerous bones at the very least. Still, if she jumped feet-first, maybe she could swim the river with a broken leg and crawl through the woods for a while until help came in the form of passersby.  
  
Had she been rational, she would have realized the stupidity of her plan. But three days in the tower being prodded by well-meaning midwives and nearly a month without Legolas' loving presence had taken their toll. Logic had lost its place in her mind. She had become a creature driven by need and emotion, and her overwhelming need was to be away from this place and closer to her husband.  
  
Her mind made up, she kicked off her shoes. They would only weigh her down in the water. Before she climbed through the window, she spied a parchment and quill on the table. On impulse, she grabbed them and set about composing a note. It read:  
  
Dear King Elrond,  
  
Though Rivendell is beautiful, I cannot stay. I must find Legolas; my heart commands it. I thank you for your generous hospitality and beg your forgiveness for this disobedience. One day you will understand and forgive me. I am sorry. Long live Your Majesty.  
  
Lady Saryn  
  
She finished writing and looked it over, noticing the drops of blood left by her ravaged hands. The quill, too, was slick with it. She put them both back on the table and stepped out onto the narrow ledge. A wave of vertigo washed over her, and she had to clutch the wall to avoid toppling headfirst to her death. Her heart was triphammering in her chest, making her feel weak. Did she really want to do this? No, but what choice did she have? She had no intention of spending the remaining six months of her seven-month pregnancy stranded in this tower. She took a deep breath and inched closer to the edge. Just as she was making ready to leap from the window, the door crashed open behind her. Startled, she lost her balance and swayed dangerously on the ledge. She frantically pinwheeled her arms for balance, but it was no use. She was going over.  
  
She would have toppled out the window and to her death if the slender hand hadn't reached out and jerked her back through the window. 


	7. Test of Convictions

"What in the name of Elbereth are you doing?" shouted Telvryn as she toppled backward onto the floor.  
  
"Escaping?" she said meekly, wincing as she rubbed her sore buttocks.  
  
"Through there? You would've killed yourself!" His eyes were wide in disbelief.  
  
"At the time I saw no choice," she said, nettled. "I wasn't expecting a rescue party."  
  
"Never mind that now," he said, returning to the doorway and dragging the unconscious guard inside. He closed the door. "Quick, help me undress him." He pulled her to her feet.  
  
"Undress him? Why?" she said, shocked.  
  
"Because you're going to put on his uniform and sneak out of here, that's why," he hissed. Now hurry up."  
  
"But I-I can't undress him," she stammered in protest.  
  
"Why not?" He had to struggle to keep his voice down.  
  
"Well, it's just that-I might see his….you know," she finished weakly. She'd never seen any besides Legolas, and she had no desire to see another.  
  
"So help me, woman, you have taken leave of your senses. We haven't got time for propriety. I'm sure Legolas will understand. They're all the same anyway. Now, unless you want to give birth in this tower, you had better help me." His patience had worn thin.  
  
So she did. She turned her head so as to see as little as possible. When the soldier had been stripped and hidden behind the privacy curtains of the bed, he turned and handed her the clothes. "Put these on."  
  
"Turn around," she demanded.  
  
"For the love of all that is sacred, put them on over your gown, then, but put them on!"  
  
While she was dressing, he grabbed the sword and bow she had brought from Mirkwood and tossed them to her. She was dressed in under a minute, and he was just about to open the door when he noticed something.  
  
"Hide those," he said, pointing at her chest.  
  
"What do you mean, hide them? I can't hide them!" she snorted.  
  
"Can't you squash them down?" he asked.  
  
"No, I can't squash them down. They're not deflatable," she scoffed. "You're a virgin, aren't you?"  
  
He flushed scarlet but made no answer. Instead he said, "Alright, let's go. And stay close." With a last look around, they crept outside and locked the door behind them.  
  
The escape would've been flawless had it not been for the tea. They were inside the stables readying the horses when the sentry who'd escorted Telvryn to his post returned with the tea he'd promised. Seeing no one at the door, he'd grown suspicious. As he drew closer and saw a faint trail of blood beginning at the door and leading inward, he'd dropped the tea and rushed forward, pounding on the door with all his might. When the groggy guard had answered his frantic hammerings with a cry of "Escape!," he'd fled the castle to spread the news.  
  
He now stood in the middle of the street outside the castle, eyes wild with urgency. "Escape!" he bugled, "Lady Saryn has escaped." Instantly the barracks sprang to life as soldiers hurried to intercept the escapees.  
  
"Bloody hell!" cried Saryn, leaping astride the impatient Rhydon. "We have to make it to the gates before they close them. Hurry, Rhydon, hurry!"  
  
She and Telvryn shot out of the stables and veered toward the imposing stone gates of Rivendell. The path to reach them was a half-mile long curve lined with immense oak trees that concealed the vigilant sentries perched inside them. Once started down that path, they could not turn back. Saryn risked a glance behind her. A dozen soldiers now pursued them, some with bows drawn. There was no longer any choice. They must reach the gates or die.  
  
She urged Rhydon on, digging her heels into his ribs and leaning as far forward as she could. "Ride hard," she breathed against his neck. Dust plumed and the path blurred beneath his hooves as they fled. Her breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, and she was nearly sobbing with fear and desperation. Behind her, the soldiers were gaining ground, and she knew the horse could go no faster. "We have to fire on them," she said, choking on the words in horror and shame. She drew her husband's bow.  
  
"We can't do that! They're our own people!" he remonstrated.  
  
"Elbereth forgive us, I know, but I have no intention of dying here. Will you take the front or the rear? Try not to kill them," she said, stifling a sob. Reluctantly, she trained her bow ahead of her and waited for the first sentry tree to come into view.  
  
The horse skidded around the first curve, and a sentry tree swam into view. A young sentry was poised on the lowest branch, waiting to pierce her with an arrow. She released hers faster, and he toppled from the tree, an arrow in his ankle. Before he struck the ground, she turned and fired at the tree opposite. Its occupant plunged down, wounded in the hip. She yelped as though struck herself and sped on. Two pairs of sentry trees left.  
  
Behind her she could hear agonized neighing as Telvryn fired upon the pursuing horses. She spared a quick glance over her shoulder. A horse crumpled to the dirt, mortally wounded with an arrow in the neck. Its rider catapulted forward and landed with a wet snap, his shoulder broken. He screamed in agony, and she followed suit, half-mad with guilt. "Lord Elbereth, forgive me for this madness and hurt, but I have no choice," she wailed, her chest heaving. But she did not stop.  
  
The second set of sentries drew near, and she fired upon them, striking them in the thigh and shoulder. She brayed louder, squeezing her eyes shut against the carnage she was causing. The number of pursuers had dwindled to four, but still they came, and simultaneously blessed them for their bravery and cursed them for it.  
  
Both the last pair of sentry trees and the blessed gates could now be seen. She could see the guardian elves working feverishly to close the mammoth gates, their backs and shoulders bunching with effort as they struggled with the great wooden crank that operated the gates. The were strong and disciplined, and the gates were now less than halfway open. "Telvryn," she screamed, "stop that chain! Keep them from closing the gates."  
  
She felt Telvryn pass her as she fitted her bow. The first shot clipped the sentry in the knee, but the second, blurred by tears and terror, veered from its intended target and struck the young sentry in the neck. "NOOO!" she screamed, leaping from her moving steed and scrambling to where the young elf lay sprawled in the bloodstained earth. He was clutching his throat and gurgling. Bright red blood was foaming from his lips and dribbling down his chin. He's drowning in his own blood, she thought as she dropped to her knees beside him. His eyes were wide and bright with pain and fear. They were a bright green, the color of polished emeralds.  
  
"This I did not intend," she wept, hovering over him. He cringed away from her, more blood pouring from his lips. His breath was coming in shallow, watery hitches. He didn't have much time. Pulling herself together, she slid her arms beneath him and struggled to pick him up. He fought feebly but was too weak from blood loss to put up much resistance. "Rhydon," she called.  
  
The noble beast, never far from its master, responded to her call and appeared at her side. She tried to heave the nearly lifeless elf onto his back, but he was too heavy. "Help me, Rhydon," she gasped. She felt a warning twinge of pain in her stomach from the child growing inside her. She took a deep breath, and the pain slowly faded. The horse knelt down, and she draped the young elf over his back. She was about to mount herself when she heard the thunder of hoofbeats behind her. There wasn't time. "Take him away, Rhydon!" she commanded, tapping him on his flank. The horse rose and bolted toward the gate, and she turned to face her pursuers.  
  
They were nearly on top of her. She turned and ran for her life, lithe legs pistoning as she sprinted the last fifty yards to the gate. Ahead of her, she could see Telvryn gesturing frantically for her to hurry.  
  
"Run, Saryn!" he screamed. "They're coming!" She could feel the horses' hot breath on her neck as the her feet pounded the dry ground. There was a hot stitch in her side, and another stab of pain gripped her belly, making her cry out. She could see Telvryn raising his bow. She felt the wind as the arrow passed millimeters over her head to embed itself in horseflesh. She heard an anguished bleat from the poor horse and a muffled thud, but she dared not look back. She was exhausted, her legs burning with exertion. The stitch in her side had grown serrated teeth and was tearing through her side like poison fire. She was bawling helplessly, black spots dancing before eyes.  
  
Then Telvryn's slender hand was pulling her through the gates and out of Rivendell. They had escaped. 


	8. The Dam Bursts

Once beyond Rivendell's gates, they did not stop their flight. Indeed, they fled nearly three miles before Saryn finally collapsed with a shriek of pain. Telvryn reined in his horse and dropped to her side. "M'lady, what is it?" he asked, trying to roll her onto her back.  
  
"My stomach," she groaned. "Like daggers and fire."  
  
"I fear you have exerted yourself beyond your means. You should not have stopped for him," he said grimly, nodding in the direction of the inert form still lying across Rhydon's back.  
  
"I could not let him die; my conscience would not have it," she answered, gritting her teeth against another wave of pain.  
  
"Your compassion for him may cost you dearly. The child inside you protests this treatment. Surely you will kill him ere he greets life if you continue down the path you have chosen. Have a care. From now on, you must tread softly," he chided her.  
  
She made no reply, only took a deep breath and trailed her fingers softly along the slight swell of her belly.  
  
"Now," he continued in a gentler tone, "we must cross the river if we are to be sure of safety. It marks the boundary of their lands, and they will not cross it. Once there, I'll set up camp, and we'll see about our new friend."  
  
"I don't think he has much time," she coughed.  
  
"I don't intend to dally," he said.  
  
Nor did he. As soon as he lifted her upon her horse, he galloped off into the night, bidding her follow. For eight miles, they streaked across the plains, flecks of hot foam flying from the horses' muzzles as they went. At long last, they splashed through the cool waters of the river, steam rising from the horses' bodies as their overheated skin touched the soothing current. When they reached the other side, he raised his hand and motioned for her to stop.  
  
He sat scanning the horizon for a suitable camp site. "There," he said, pointing to a grove of birch trees a quarter-mile to the east. He nudged his horse forward again. The animals, sensing an end to their interminable journey, cantered briskly onward, and within twenty minutes, they were comfortably ensconced in the pleasant grove.  
  
"Now then," said Telvryn once the camp site had been secured, "let's tend to our fallen friend, eh?" He gently lifted the limp body from the horse and laid it beside the crackling fire.  
  
"Is he dead?" she asked, fearing the worst. She hadn't seen him move since she put him on the horse.  
  
"No, he lives, though barely. He's lost a great deal of blood. He'll need a transfusion, but first the arrow must be removed." He picked up the body and carried it over to where she sat propped against a tree. Setting it down, he rolled up his sleeve and drew a small knife. "I'm going to cut my arm now. When I tell you, pull the arrow out quickly and cleanly. Jiggle it just a little either way and you'll sever his jugular. He'll be dead before my arm reaches him. You only have one chance. Are you ready? He looked at her levelly.  
  
Of course she wasn't ready. The magnitude of the responsibility now being foisted upon her sat heavily on her chest, making it hard to breathe. If her hand twitched or trembled but a little, she would snuff out his life like a faint spark in a driving rain. The idea made her stomach give a greasy, uneasy lurch. She swallowed hard and nodded, hoping she wouldn't break the arrow in two as she gingerly grasped its delicate shaft with a cold hand.  
  
He extended his arm, clenching his fist to bring a vein to the surface of his skin. Acting quickly, before his own nerves could fail him, he sliced diagonally across his arm, wincing as the cold iron bit into his skin. A thin rivulet of dark red blood emerged, dime-sized drops pattering softly to the ground below. "Now!" he barked.  
  
She pulled as hard as she could, struggling with her gorge as the arrow emerged with a squelching, meaty sound like gristle being torn from the bone. She tossed it away with a disgusted whimper, wiping her hand on the coarse leather of the sentry's uniform she was still wearing. Telvryn, meanwhile, had clamped his forearm over the gaping wound in the dying elf's neck, with immediate results. The wound was sizzling and contracting, knitting together like the mouth of a drawstring bag. The dying injured elf's body shook and juddered as though struck by an electric current. His cloth-booted feet tapped out a sporadic, staccato rhythm on the ground, his hands clawing into the hard earth, breaking two fingernails to the quick. His jaw worked feverishly, his teeth clicking together like dry bones as he convulsed. He was grunting, thick jabs of air blowing from his nostrils.  
  
Telvryn remained pressed against the wounded elf's neck until he had given as much blood as he thought safe before wrenching himself away with a jerk. Exhausted, he sat on his knees, panting. Now he had gone pale, dark, bruised circles forming under his eyes. "Saryn, bring me some water and a potato from my bag. The transfusion has weakened me, and I must eat to regain my strength." His voice was but a whisper.  
  
She stood slowly, mindful of a lingering tenderness in her belly. His bag lay by the fire, and she quickly found a large potato and a canteen of water. She handed him the water and prepared the potato, impaling it upon a spit and turning it over the fire until the skin crackled beneath her fingers. When it was done, she handed it to him, eyeing him with concern as he devoured it. His normally vibrant face was drawn, his bright eyes muted in weariness. She feared he had given too much.  
  
When he had finished, she returned the canteen to its place and guided him to a tree opposite the one beneath which she had been sitting. He smiled gratefully as she covered him with his cloak and settled once more beneath the tree beside the injured elf. Though a rose tint had returned to his skin, he had not yet stirred. Of the wound there was no sign. "Will he survive?" she asked, stroking his forehead.  
  
"I do not know. I gave him as much as I could, perhaps more than I ought. Still, he has lost much. His fate is now out of our hands. Whatever may happen, it shall happen soon."  
  
She nodded but did not speak. Telvryn needed rest. She let her head fall back against the trunk of the great tree and let her eyes wander. The stars were brilliant ice chips splashed across the horizon, and she smiled bitterly at the memories they stirred within her. Midnight strolls with Legolas through their private glade, supple elvish hands linked as they meandered amongst the ageless green grasses and white-barked trees, their muffled murmurings and laughter floating lightly on the breeze. And the castle garden.  
  
The memory brought a brief tightening to her chest, and her eyes prickled with unshed tears. That magical night with the heady scent of jasmine in the air. The warm feel of Legolas' arms around her as he laughingly smuggled her into the garden under a heavy cloak. The endless hours of hiding amongst the countless exquisite plants and flowers, giggling like children as they discovered one another anew. The song he'd sung for her as he'd threaded delicate lilac buds throughout her golden tresses. A fragment of it arose in her mind, a ghostly reminder carried by the soughing wind, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to stifle the sobs that threatened to escape from her lips. Oh flame of my heart, thee I shall never forsake, he'd sung in his silky, clarion voice, but about that he'd lied. He had left her, and now she was here on the outskirts of Rivendell with two strange elves. She'd never been more miserable in her life.  
  
Just when she'd regained self-control, another memory struck her, one that swamped her with its vividness and smashed all the defenses she'd put up to hold back the emotional tidal wave that raged within her. The memory of the rest of the night in the garden, the most sacred memory of all. How they'd come to stand beside a bush full of bronze roses. How for a long moment, they'd stared into one another's eyes, frozen by the enormity of love's power. He'd kissed her, a kiss of such deep and probing passion that her knees failed her and she sank into his arms. Then, as Diana poured the silver light of the moon over the garden like enchanted water, he tenderly stripped away her diaphanous white gown and stared at her in unabashed innocence. With eager and tender hands, he explored her, igniting sensations and passions about which she had never guessed. Then came the burning pain of innocence lost and his all-consuming heat. They had become one.  
  
The sobs came then, great heaving, wracking sobs that started as small quivering squeaks and rose to the crescendo of a banshee's wail. She was dimly aware of Telvryn starting from a deep slumber and scrambling from beneath his warm velvet cloak to see what had happened, but she continued to wail, arms folded against her stomach as she bent double, hot forehead brushing her knees.  
  
"M'lady, what is it? Are you ill?" he asked, certain she was losing the child.  
  
"Some things are sharper than the point of an orc's arrow," she gibbered, but said no more. Her small frame shook with the force of her despairing cries.  
  
Telvryn hesitated. Clearly, the rigors of the journey had caught up with her, and she needed comfort and a warm shoulder. It was improper to touch a joined woman when not in the presence of her husband, but he could see little choice. Her husband was not here to give his consent in the matter, nor was he here to give her the comfort she so desperately needed. His tender heart could not bear to see her thus, and so he sat down beside her and enfolded her in his arms.  
  
There was a sudden moment of awkward silence as she pondered his unexpected attention. When she was certain he harbored no ill intent, the sobs resumed. Though quieter, she still trembled with their fury. He stroked her hair and made meaningless noises to calm her. Little by little, the sobs began to taper off.  
  
When he felt the worst was past, he helped her to sit up again. "Alright now?" he asked, brushing her cheek.  
  
She nodded, swiping at her eyes with her tiny porcelain hands.  
  
"Do you care to speak of what troubles you?"  
  
"I yearn for my beloved. My heart is torn asunder without him. I fear I will never look upon his beautiful face again, nor smell the sweet, wild strawberry scent of his hair-." She stopped, on the verge of tears again.  
  
Turning her face to his, he said, "You shall see him again if you will but have faith." Then to distract her from a further outburst, he said, "Tell me of the child." He was relieved to see a faint spark of joy light her face.  
  
"If it is a boy-child, Legolas shall name him. He has often expressed fondness for the name Joloch. If it is a girl, I shall call her Gaela," she said, tracing her finger along the barely perceptible swell.  
  
"It seems that you have considered this well," he mused.  
  
She uttered a small chuckle. "Long have we desired a child, but it has been no easy thing."  
  
"Truly?" He was surprised. Generally elves who wanted children were blessed with them rather quickly.  
  
"Though it was not for lack of trying," she added with a sly grin, "indeed, we applied ourselves to the task quite vigorously."  
  
"What then?" asked Telvryn, a bit taken aback by her forthrightness.  
  
"I suspect the meddling of King Thranduil played no small part in the affair," she said, eyes flashing. "Once he saw that he could not turn his son from the path he had chosen, he immediately summoned the midwives to attend to me so that I might produce an heir all the faster. Indeed, no sooner had we returned from our time of bonding than an endless stream of midwives passed through our doors, each carrying a potion more noxious than the first. Despite these foul draughts and our most fervent efforts, there came no child."  
  
"After forty years with no success, I told Legolas I would no longer suffer the intolerable potions. A suspicion had begun to grow in my mind, one about which I did not speak to him. I reasoned that something so horrible could not possibly be meant to inspire new life. Mayhap it was purposed for the opposite end."  
  
"You mean to say," he interrupted her, "that the king would deprive his son of the joys of giving life for his own ends?"  
  
"I mean the very thing," she affirmed.  
  
"But why?" he asked. "It would be folly to deny himself an heir."  
  
"Why? He already has a son, and if perchance Legolas perished in battle, the king himself is in no danger. Certainly he has not ventured onto the field of battle for nearly a thousand years. Besides, if he could convince Legolas that I was barren, he could hope to pair him off with the much-lauded duchess."  
  
"So how is it that you are now with child?" he prodded.  
  
"As I have told you," she resumed, "I ceased taking the potions offered by the midwives. Instantly, I felt better. With renewed enthusiasm, we again set out to create life, but still there were no offspring. To my mind, the revolting concoctions were meant to render me permanently barren. Fortunately, I stopped taking them before they could complete their evil work, but it was a near thing. For a hundred and sixty years afterwards, our love has served only to unite us; in fact, we had given up hope of becoming parents. Then, nearly a month ago, our last coupling has finally produced the miracle we have awaited all these years."  
  
They sat in companionable silence for a time. Then she said, "I have lost all hope of reaching Legolas before he comes to Mordor. Already he is ten days ahead of us."  
  
Telvryn remained silent for a moment, debating whether or not to tell her what he knew. She seemed so fragile, and in her delicate condition, it would be ill-advised to plant the notion in her head at all. Still, if she discovered his well-meaning deceit, she would never forgive him. And the memory of her heartbroken wails was still fresh in his mind. "There is a way," he said softly.  
  
She looked at him, hope sparkling in her eyes.  
  
"The Bog of Basylis," he said, grimacing at the oily feel of the name as it slid from his tongue.  
  
"I know not this place," she said, furrowing her brow in puzzlement.  
  
"Nor should you. It is not much talked-about here. I only know of it from my grandfather. According to legend, it is a noisome, evil marsh, filled with treacherous slithering eels and serpents. Few who enter it return. Even if one should survive the murderous creatures, they will almost certainly be slain by the bog's guardian, the great Basylis."  
  
At this name too she drew a blank. "Who?"  
  
"The great horned cobra Basylis guards the exit from the bog. Before one can return to the land of light, they must defeat him. No one has ever made it that far, hence no one has bested him. Basylis was once an ally of the people of Middle Earth, a counselor and protector. There was sanctuary to be had in his land, a paradise of rolling green hills and crystal springs."  
  
"Then Sauron came with his ambitions of power. The wise and benevolent serpent opposed him. Enraged, Sauron used the Ring of Power to change the beautiful landscape into an ugly morass of putrid, stinking swamp. Basylis, too, was transformed from a breathtaking beast with satin skin the color of smoked cream into an eyeless, skeletal monstrosity covered with flaps of rotting flesh."  
  
"Alone and isolated in his dank, hellish prison, Basylis' once noble heart grew vengeful and bitter. Now instead of embracing the people of Middle Earth, he seeks to revenge himself upon them for abandoning them in his time of need. If we go there, he will surely kill us."  
  
"How will it help us to catch up with Legolas?" she asked.  
  
"If he is going to Mordor, surely he will pass through Lothlorien, but first he must choose the path to take. The shortest way is through the mines of Moria, a four-day journey. Even with his head start, he is still four days from reaching the mines. That leaves us a minimum of eight days to reach him. The Bog of Basylis lies three days southeast of here. At the best, we could cross the bog in four days more, thus putting us directly behind them. However, it is unlikely our travels will be so smooth. Six days would be a better guess."  
  
"Then it is hopeless," she cried, crestfallen.  
  
"Not so," he reassured her. "The mines of Moria are inhabited by dwarves. I doubt they would grant an elf passage. The next-quickest route would be the southern passage, a trek of thirteen days. It is most likely the road he will take."  
  
"Then we must pass through the bog," she said solemnly.  
  
"Even though we may pass to our deaths?" he asked.  
  
"Even so. You can turn back if you wish."  
  
"No. I started this journey with you, and with you shall I end it."  
  
She nodded. "What of him?" she asked, fussing over the unconscious elf's blanket.  
  
He sighed. "We can only hope he awakens before we reach the bog. The horses cannot pass through the bog; they would drown in the murky depths. If he cannot walk on his own, we will have to leave him behind and hope a search party finds him."  
  
"What if the orcs find him first?" she asked.  
  
Neither spoke after that. It was too horrible to consider. 


	9. Questionable Honor

14  
  
King Elrond was relaxing in his private chambers, warming himself by the fire and enjoying a goblet of amber mead when the door burst open, and a sweat-soaked, blood-stained elf ran inside.  
  
"Your Majesty, your Majesty," he panted, forgetting to bow in his haste, "Lady Saryn has escaped!"  
  
"What?" he breathed, unwilling to believe it. The goblet he had been holding slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered to the stone floor, splashing his wine robes with the cold liquid.  
  
"It is so, sir," confirmed the breathless messenger. "She escaped and locked her guard in the tower. We tried to recapture her, but she and Telvryn resisted, wounding nearly a dozen men and killing six horses before they fled."  
  
"Are any of the wounds fatal?" he asked sharply, pacing rapidly back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back.  
  
"No sir, but they have taken one of our number," he answered.  
  
"Who?" he queried, head snapping up.  
  
"A young sentry named Cerek Blackbark. She wounded him in the neck, and when he fell, she placed him upon her horse and fled from the city on foot. Shall I organize a search party, sire? he said, already turning to give the expected order.  
  
"No," he said.  
  
The messenger slowly turned to face the king again, his eyes as round as pie plates. "No, sire?" he repeated, not sure he understood.  
  
"No. That will not be necessary."  
  
"But your Highness," he spluttered, "they have taken Cerek. If they are mad enough to oppose their own kind, surely he is in mortal danger!"  
  
"Do you think I have taken leave of my senses since you entered my chambers, young one?" he thundered, unaccustomed to being questioned.  
  
"Of course not, sire," he said, realizing his mistake, "but I do not understand why we do not act."  
  
"Use you head for but a moment. It is obvious she has no intention of killing Cerek. If that were what she desired, she would have left him where he lay. Furthermore, even if that were her intent, it is not so simple a matter as hunting her down like a common dog. She is Lady Saryn, wife of Prince Legolas, and she carries his child. Though I suspect it would not much displease King Thranduil if we were to kill her, it would be quite a blow for Legolas, one I do not intend to inflict. No, this must be handled with much prudence. I must think. Is there anything else to report?" He looked intently at the by now flummoxed messenger.  
  
"Yes. She left this," he said, holding out the blood-spattered parchment.  
  
The king took it but did not read. Thank you, you may go," he said, suddenly feeling very tired.  
  
He waited until the bewildered sentry had gone before unfolding the letter. His thin lips twitched in a wry smile as he read it. Ah, Legolas, how well you have chosen, he thought, absently, refolding it and tucking it inside his robes. For you, she would shed the blood of her own people. She would sacrifice a thousand lives, not all of them her own to protect you. His thoughts turned to Saryn. And you…what a firebrand you have become. You have exceeded all my expectations. You know yourself so well, yet not at all. Dare I turn your world upside down with the truth?  
  
He stared into the flames, seeking an answer from their burning, wagging tongues. None came. A memory rose unbidden in his mind. An elven infant placed atop a merchant's cart in the driving rain, her stricken wails piercing the night air-  
  
He pushed the image away with an effort. It would not do to think of that now. He needed counsel. He scoffed to himself at the irony of it. He, Elrond, wise counselor to all, needed advice. To whom could he turn? Galadriel. Yes. She would know what to do. He whirled and called out, "Guard."  
  
The door opened, and the guard entered, bowing. "Yes, my lord?"  
  
"Prepare my horse. Tonight I ride for Lothlorien."  
  
15  
  
Legolas squatted serenely beside the fire, savoring the beauty of the sunrise. The soft shafts of sunlight reflected off the morning dew, making it look as though the ground had been strewn with burnished quartz. The pleasant, oily smell of frying sausage filled his nostrils. Three days after King Elrond's unexpected and secret departure from Rivendell and one day before his determined wife would set foot in the Bog of Basylis, the fellowship was encamped at the crossroads to Lothlorien. Today they must choose the path they would take. As always the hobbits were busily cooking breakfast.  
  
"Sausage, Master Legolas?" asked Sam agreeably, holding out a fat link.  
  
"No. Animal flesh displeases me. I much prefer the luscious browned tomatoes you have there," he answered.  
  
"Ah, Master Legolas, you have fine judgment!" cried Sam, handing him half a dozen of the slightly crispy slices.  
  
Legolas smiled, popping one into his mouth. The browned outer skin dissolved in his mouth, leaving the juicy inner pulp. He rolled it across his tongue, relishing the sweet tang. "Wonderful, Sam," he said approvingly.  
  
The jovial hobbit beamed with pride. He began to hum as he worked. Legolas watched the other party members as they went about their morning rituals. Boromir, as was his custom, was brooding sullenly in the corner. Gimli sat polishing his axe. The hobbits were still attacking humble Sam's offerings with gusto, and Gandalf sat meditatively smoking his pipe. His keen eyes noticed a member of their company was nowhere to be found. "Sam, where is Strider?" he asked.  
  
"Oh, he went off early this morning to scout the area, see if there were any orcs about. You know how he is," Sam answered casually, concentrating on not burning Frodo's third helping of toast.  
  
Legolas nodded. He knew exactly how Strider was. Aloof and brooding, he rarely spoke, excellent traits for the nomadic, elusive Rangers he supposed. Everyone knew his true identity as Aragorn, heir to the man-king Isildur, but it was not a name he was willing to claim. Pursued by his emotional demons, he was ever-vigilant against real ones. Legolas often wondered if he slept at all. He'd noticed him more than once prowling the campsite in the dead of night, searching for intruders. He was a fierce and proud man, one he was glad to have as an ally.  
  
As if summoned by Legolas' thoughts, Strider appeared from behind an outcropping. His hair was tousled and full of nettles. "There are no orcs about," he declared, coming to stand beside the cooking fire.  
  
"Ah, splendid," said Gandalf, rising to his feet. "Now that you're here, we can come to a decision about the path we should take."  
  
The fellowship gathered in a loose circle to debate the issue.  
  
"I suggest we take the mountain trail. The mountain is so treacherous and inhospitable that no orc would dare attempt it," said Gandalf.  
  
"What?" said Boromir, flabbergasted. "That is a journey of eighty days. We have no time to waste. While we struggle against the mountain, Sauron will be orchestrating our end. Why not take the southern trail? We could reach Lothlorien in a mere thirteen days. Surely that is the better way."  
  
"No," said Gandalf vehemently, "Now that Isengard and Saruman have betrayed us, the southern passage will be crawling with his spies as well as orcs. It is too dangerous. The mountain is our only choice."  
  
"I agree with Gandalf," said Frodo in his small, timid voice.  
  
"What a surprise," muttered Boromir under his breath. Frodo blushed furiously but said nothing.  
  
"What about the mines of Moria?" Gimli spoke up, prompting everyone to turn his way. Seeing he had everyone's attention, he continued. "We could reach the outskirts of Lothlorien in just four days," he explained, growing more excited as he spoke, "and my cousin, Balin, is lord of the great underground city. We could enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves before resuming our journey."  
  
"No," responded Gandalf flatly, all the color draining from his face. "I would not venture into that place for all the money in the world."  
  
"Why?" said Legolas, his curiosity piqued.  
  
"Some things are better left undisturbed," he replied harshly and turned away. The matter was no longer up for discussion. Up the mountain they went.  
  
Mount Cadharas was a craggy, snow-covered peak towering eighty- thousand feet into the sky. Its howling, cutting winds had frozen many an unwary traveler to death, and yet, as he climbed, Legolas could not help but feel exhilarated. Here was a place unspoiled by the hands of man or dwarf or elf. The cold air that entered his lungs and re-emerged in a bright white plume was pure and clean, invigorating his rapidly numbing limbs. The snow, unmarred by dirt or fire smoke, was so pristine he had to squint against its brightness. Its beauty swelled his heart in momentary gladness, and he burst into song.  
  
"I see you're feeling much better about our journey, young master elf," grunted Gimli, falling into step beside him. "No longer concerned with the welfare of your wife?"  
  
"I worry for her every waking moment," he replied, growing serious once more. "Each day my longing for her grows greater, but my worry can change nothing. I have resolved to dedicate myself to this quest so that I may return to her all the faster. She is safe in our bower, and I have confidence she will remain so until I return."  
  
"That is the first sensible thing I've heard you utter, master elf," chortled Gimli.  
  
Ignorant of the fact that his wife was anything but safe, he continued up the trail, nimble feet dancing lightly over the soft-packed snow. So light were his steps that he left no footprints. Behind him, his companions were not so lucky. They stumbled and slogged through the knee- deep snow, the unfortunate hobbits tripping incessantly over their large, cumbersome feet. Every few paces, they would misstep and fall face first into the blanket of white, spluttering and flailing to right themselves again.  
  
Looking back, Legolas would tell himself later, it was inevitable that things happened the way they did. No one was particularly troubled when Frodo stumbled and tumbled backward down the slope because he'd done it several times already. No one even looked around. Then his sensitive ears heard the sharp gasp of horror.  
  
Turning, he saw the red-cheeked hobbit sprawled in the thick snow. His small hand was groping about his slender neck, and for a moment he couldn't understand why. Then he saw that Frodo's large blue eyes were riveted to something a few feet away. He followed his gaze. The chain that held the Ring glittered in the snow. It had broken in the fall and now lay like a dead snake on the ground. Instinctively, Legolas reached for it, but Boromir was closer. He scooped it up and dangled the chain loosely from his fingertips.  
  
Everyone froze to watch what would happen next. Legolas suddenly felt like he was breathing through electrified cotton.  
  
"Strange that so much care and worry should be bound up in such a small thing," whispered Boromir to himself. His dark eyes bore into the deceptively simple ring he held in front of him like steel rivets.  
  
"Boromir," Strider said in a commanding voice, "give the Ring to Frodo." Legolas noted with no great surprise that his hand had moved to the hilt of his sword.  
  
Boromir did not move. He was a statue, rooted to the spot and murmuring secretively to himself. In his eyes, Legolas could see the same cold greed he'd seen at the council, and the same thought he'd had then returned to his mind. He is the weak link among us. His right hand strayed unconsciously to his bow.  
  
"Boromir," Strider repeated more loudly, his hand tightening on his sword, "give the Ring to Frodo."  
  
This time Boromir flinched as though he were coming out of a daze. "Oh….yes, of course," he said. He flashed a feeble smile, but the smile did not reach his eyes. Greed still festered there, an infection in his soul that was simply biding its time. He marched woodenly across the snow and dropped the chain into Frodo's outstretched hand. Only then did Strider relax his grip on his sword. "I care not." He barked a hollow laugh and sauntered away.  
  
But Legolas knew he was lying. He did care. Quite a bit, in fact. He needed to be watched. Closely. 


	10. Into the Abyss

They trudged up the mountain for two more miserable days. A desultory silence had descended upon the company since Frodo had nearly lost the Ring. Boromir had withdrawn into himself, staying far away from the others. Frodo trusted no one, cowering against Gandalf if anyone drew too near. The temperature had plunged below zero. Even Legolas had begun to suffer from its effects, ice forming on the bridge of his nose and his joints were growing stiff from the unrelenting cold.  
  
"Legolas, how are you?" asked Strider, falling into step beside him.  
  
"Well, but my eyes are watchful," he replied, his eyes shifting momentarily to Boromir, who was shambling a little behind the rest, eyes fixed upon the ground.  
  
"I am of the same mind," concurred Strider, speaking in a low voice only Legolas could hear. "I do not trust him."  
  
"Nor I. My heart tells me he will lead us to ill fortune."  
  
"We must be especially vigilant Legolas. We can risk no harm to Frodo or the ring."  
  
Legolas watched Boromir for a moment. "What troubles him that he desires the ring so?"  
  
Strider sighed. "The land of Gondor was once the crown jewel of the race of men. The white city was a wonder to all who beheld it. The strongest and wisest of all the kings of men was enthroned there. Alas, the once-mighty city has been in a steady decline since the disappearance of the ring. Orcs and famine have ravaged it. Boromir's father is the steward of Gondor. He is a wise and just man, but his health is failing, and his leadership with it. For some time, there have been whispers of rebellion. The people are starving and battered by the endless bands of orcs who plague them. With men, bread is often valued above reason. Boromir is a proud man, and he much desires to see Gondor restored to its former glory, and he would do anything to make it so."  
  
"How do you know this?"  
  
"A Ranger knows many things if he closes his mouth and opens his ears." Strider's grim mouth twisted into as much of a smile as he could muster.  
  
"Does he not see that the good, even the survival of Gondor, depends on the destruction of the Ring?"  
  
"He sees only that the ring grants power to he who wields it. In his mind, with such power, he would heal Gondor's ill. He does not see that the Ring is beyond his control." Seeing Legolas glaring contemptuously at Boromir, he added, "Do not be so quick to judge, Legolas. If the life of Saryn were imperiled, would you not do everything within your power, and some things beyond it, to save her?"  
  
Legolas stopped and fixed his companion with a steady gaze. "For her I would brave the very fires of Hell. It is for her that I accompany this fellowship; I would give my life so that she not suffer under the lash of Mount Doom." He dropped his gaze and resumed his travels.  
  
"I expected no less from you, Legolas," said Strider. "Be on your guard." He clapped him on the shoulder and moved on.  
  
Legolas let his mind drift as he walked along. He wondered how Saryn was doing without him and if she longed for him as he did for her. If she was following her normal routine, she would be bathing in their private lagoon, the water beading and glistening on her fair skin. Her soft flaxen tresses would be plastered to the swell of her breasts like an alluring second skin….  
  
It wouldn't do to continue along this line of thought. It was igniting passions in him that would not be easily extinguished. Better to fix his mind on less alluring things. His eyes alighted on Gimli's rounded back. That was better. Already the flames of passion were guttering. It seemed there was a use for dwarves after all.  
  
Arahala Ga-hwei, came the soft muttering on the shrieking wind. The voice was unpleasant, a rusty razor across his delicate earlobes. "I hear a foul voice on the wind," he cried, freezing like a deer that has scented danger on the wind.  
  
"It's Saruman," bellowed Gandalf, eyes smoldering with fury.  
  
"He's trying to bring down the mountain," screamed Strider, trying to be heard over the shrieking wind. "We should turn back." A clump of snow crashed down as he spoke.  
  
"No," refused the old wizard, obstinately wading a few more yards. He stopped, arms outstretched, ancient wizard's staff clutched in one hand. To Legolas, he looked like a phoenix about to be consumed by flame. "D'legoltyh mtri imnoi shala," he intoned, arms shaking with effort.  
  
At first, the counterspell seemed to work The mountain calmed, and the wind abated, but only for a moment. Then the sky darkened to a tumorous black, and the air began to roil with an acid, pulsating energy. Then the grating, baleful voice of Saruman thundered down on them so loudly that Legolas had to stifle a scream of pain from the pressure in his ears. "Frytoliy gylit asa duml."  
  
There was a thunderclap so loud it rattled his teeth, and then a fist of lightning smashed down upon the side of the mountain. A low, rumbling roar filled the thin air and Legolas looked up to see a wall of white bearing down upon them. Gandalf stood poised to utter another counterspell, pale with tension. He stubbornly refused to see the oncoming danger. Lunging forward, he grabbed the wizard by the hem of his faded rob and jerked him under the overhanging precipice just as the avalanche buried them all.  
  
For a moment, he was so cold and wet that he couldn't react. The falling snow had struck him with such force that he lost his breath. He lay, gasping like a fish, waiting for his senses to return. When he was sure he was not going to suffocate, he began floundering about until his head emerged from the cloying snowdrift. All around him, a tangle of arms and legs was slowly emerging from the snow like monstrous plants. When he got his bearings, he groped beneath the writhing white cover in search of the wizard.  
  
"Gandalf?" he called, plunging his hands into the shifting snow. His hands settled on the top of Gandalf's head, and he pulled until the old mage surfaced with an indignant cough.  
  
"Leave off, Legolas, else I appear as I did the day I drew breath," he groused, rubbing his offended scalp.  
  
"Forgive me, Gandalf. I feared you grievously injured," apologized Legolas, trying to suppress a laugh.  
  
He helped his companion to his feet, and when they had all extricated themselves from their icy shrouds, they gathered to survey the damage. The heap of snow completely blocked their path. It towered three feet over the head of even Legolas, the tallest of the group.  
  
"There is no way around this," said Boromir, passing a hand of his waxen face. "It would take us days to dig through it, and even if we could, it would take days. There's no promise that Saruman wouldn't bring more down upon our heads."  
  
For once, Legolas agreed with him. He could see no way to proceed up the treacherous mountain pass. He felt a heavy resignation sinking into his bones, one that was mirrored in the faces of his friends. Even Gandalf looked grim.  
  
"If we cannot go over the mountain, why not go under it?" suggested Gimli.  
  
Gandalf's bony shoulders stiffened as though he was about to protest, then slumped. "Let the Ring-bearer decide," he said.  
  
Frodo's breath stopped in his throat. Not since his decision to carry the Ring to Mount Doom had he been asked to make such a crucial decision. He wanted to flee from this responsibility, to hide away from all of this until someone else accepted the burden. The realization that his next words could lead them all to their deaths rose in his large, docile eyes like acrid smoke from the ruins of a forest fire. Looking at him, Legolas felt a sharp pang of pity. He looked haunted, hunted. He was a rabbit caught in a terrible snare, a rabbit who knew the only way out was in the arms of death.  
  
"We go through the mines."  
  
"So be it," sighed Gandalf. His words hung in the bitterly cold air like a death knell. Eyes downcast, they turned and headed back down the mountain.  
  
17  
  
While the company was engaged in a tense standoff between Aragorn and Boromir on the mountain trail, Saryn and Telvryn were having a dispute of their own. Her face was hard, fierce as she crouched beside the still unconscious Cerek outside the gloomy entrance to the fetid Bay of Basylis. "I'm not leaving him here," she snapped, eyes flashing.  
  
"We cannot take him with us; we've already sent the horses on their way around the swamp, and it's impossible to carry him," reasoned Telvryn.  
  
"All the same, I'm not leaving him for the orcs to find," she insisted, crossing her arms across her chest.  
  
"What do you propose we do then? Every hour we wait is another hour from your husband," he countered.  
  
The mention of her absent husband earned a strangled mewl of misery from her, and he instantly regretted his words. He reached out a hand to grasp her shoulder, but she gave a sudden squeal of delight and clapped her hands together. It was a gesture so unlike her since their brief acquaintance that it startled him.  
  
"A raft," she exclaimed, eyes alight, "we could build a raft."  
  
"Wha-," he started to ask, but she continued as though he hadn't made a sound.  
  
"Yes, that's it. There's enough dry kindling and flexible reeds here to build a serviceable raft. It wouldn't hold us all, mind, but it might be enough to keep him from drowning." And before he could say a word, she was off scrounging in the dense underbrush for fallen branches.  
  
"Why do you care so much what happens to him?" he asked, bewildered about her staunch refusal to leave the elf behind. "Even if he awakens, he's not going to be pleased to see us. He might even try to avenge himself upon you for trying to put an end to him. We'd fare better without him."  
  
She stopped so quickly that it looked like she'd struck a stone wall. When she turned to face him, he was shocked to see tears glistening in her eyes. She was trembling with barely suppressed rage. "I do it because it's what I would want someone to do for Legolas if it came to that." Her voice was so low it was nearly a growl, and she was looking at him with something akin to hatred in her eyes. "Now are you going to help me, or am I going alone with the elf?" Her bloodless fingertips clutched the cord of wood she held so tightly that he could see fingernail marks in the dry bark.  
  
Telvryn suddenly felt very ashamed of himself. He fought to swallow a sudden lump in his throat. "How much do we need?" he said. They both began to hunt.  
  
Two hours later, the raft was finished. A pitifully flimsy construction, it was a long rectangle, six feet by four feet. Its body was composed of water-logged cypress branches tied together with triple-twined dry reeds. A small hole had been bored into either end, and through these had been pushed the thin leather belts from the sentry uniforms she and Telvryn wore.  
  
"I don't think this is going to hold," Telvryn said doubtfully as he surveyed their handiwork.  
  
"No," she agreed, "but it's the best we've got. Now help me get him onto it."  
  
Grabbing their comatose companion from either end, they quickly arranged him on the fragile raft. Telvryn noted with a glimmer of hope that he stirred slightly as they shifted him. Maybe he would regain consciousness soon. Grasping the thin leather straps, the picked him up and headed into the bog. 


	11. Awakening

The bog enveloped them. Immediately the air grew thicker, a billowing greenish mist that smelled of burnt pitch. It swirled in clammy tendrils around their ankles. The ground beneath their feet trembled and shifted precariously as they walked, and when their feet broke through the thick overlay of rotting vegetation, they sank calf-deep into a viscous glop the consistency of congealed beef broth. The surrounding vegetation, bone- white fleshy tubers and squat black mangroves, decorated with slimy, white- spotted leaves, pressed in around them. The water gave an occasional unpleasant burp as something slithered in its shadowy depths. The air was thick with clouds of tiny black insects that swarmed inside their nose and mouth with every breath. Over all of this lay a pall of such desolation and despair that they fought to keep from weeping.  
  
"Oh, I fear this is a terrible place, indeed," she said in uneven, tremulous voice. The hand gripping the leather strap of the raft shook with unspoken dread.  
  
"Let us turn back while we are still able, for surely it will get no better," pleaded Telvryn. He looked decidedly green, and she couldn't blame him.  
  
"Wise words indeed, but ones I cannot heed if I am to reach Legolas," she answered, peering into the shadows.  
  
"Much good you will be to him if we arrive in pieces," he mumbled.  
  
Time could not touch the bog. The skeletal tubers and diseased mangroves blotted out all light. Mile after mile, they slogged through the brackish, stinking water. Her gorge, already sensitive from her pregnancy, revolted completely. Gagging and retching, she vomited half a dozen times before they stopped to rest on a lumpy hummock raised above the water. The raft had held up better than expected, but Cerek's hair was coated in a slimy, reeking green liquid. Saryn set about brushing him off as best she could while Telvryn searched for any bit of food not blighted by the bog water. All he found were two small loaves of elven bread.  
  
"I'm afraid this is all we have," he told her, breaking one of the loaves in half and passing it to her.  
  
"But we still have more than five days before we can hope to escape this festering boil upon the face of the earth," she complained, taking an unenthusiastic bite of bread. She wasn't in the least bit hungry. The high, sickly sweet smell of the soupy water would most likely cause her to bring it back up anyway.  
  
"What you say is true, m'lady, but unfortunately, I also speak the truth," he answered calmly. "And mind that you eat it. You need the nourishment."  
  
She sighed and settled back to eat her meager lunch. It tasted like paper as she swallowed, and she grimaced. Her back and legs throbbed from hours of fighting her way across the bog. Her right shoulder hummed and burned from the effort of carrying Cerek nearly twelve miles. She gingerly kneaded it, hoping to ease her discomfort. Elbereth, she hoped he woke up soon. She didn't think she could drag him much longer. Just as she was getting ready to try and sleep for a few short hours, a sudden, stealthy swish in the water caught her attention. Fixing her eyes on the spot, she could just make out the outline of a massive, diamond-shaped head and two bright yellow eyes the size of a grape. A serpent. And if the head was any indication, it was enormous.  
  
She turned to mention the creature to Telvryn, but was violently interrupted by thrashings and whispery screams coming from the raft. They both turned to look. Cerek, who for nearly four days, had lain as still as the dead, was flailing in jerky spasms. His head whipped from side to side, and garbled words and cries were coming from his lips.  
  
Pulse racing, she leaned over and clutched his shoulders, speaking soothing words to calm him. Even in sickness, he is strong, she thought as she wrestled and struggled to hold him on the raft. "Friend," she called, leaning into his face, "it's alright. You are among friends." It did no good. If anything, he writhed harder and faster against her hands. Afraid he would injure himself if he kept thrashing around like that, she moved to sit on him, but just as quickly as the flurry of activity began, it ceased. His rigid limbs relaxed and his head grew still. He looked much as he had for the past four days.  
  
She and Telvryn regarded one another in confusion. "What was that?" she asked after she'd caught her breath.  
  
"I do not know. Perhaps he dreams. Whatever it may be, it bodes well for him. Now we can be sure we have not been tending to a corpse. Rest now. In an hour, we move out again."  
  
The hour passed all too soon. No sooner had she closed her eyes than it was time to open them again. She rose, stiff and sore. Their companion had not stirred, she saw. She reached down to grab the leather strap of the raft, but Telvryn stopped her.  
  
"No," he said sternly, "I will pull him. You have pulled him far too long already. Besides, you will need your strength. The water grows much deeper from here on out."  
  
He was right. Beyond the pitiable shelter of their slushy hummock, the water rose considerably. She reluctantly handed over the reins of the raft and stepped of the tiny island. She was instantly up to her neck in the cold, black muck. The smell of putrid vegetation and rotting fish was much stronger now. It stung her nostrils and made her eyes well with tears. Her long-suffering stomach once again grew mutinous.  
  
The bog was even more menacing at night. Black as pitch, the only light came from the bulbous, luminescent white eyes of the gray eels as they glided through the water. They were swimming blind now, relying solely upon their instincts to guide them. Wispy, clutching reeds grasped at her feet, make her shriek in momentary terror, visions of the mammoth serpent she'd glimpsed earlier flitting across her mind. She debated telling Telvryn of what she'd seen, but decided against it. No use worrying him unnecessarily. The creature was likely miles away by now.  
  
"How much farther?" she asked. She hated to whine, but she was beyond exhaustion. Her eyes stung with weariness. Her vision doubled, then trebled as she swam doggedly through the freezing mire.  
  
"Not far now," came the groggy response. "You'll know we're there when you can feel the bottom again."  
  
She paddled along in a daze, fighting to stay awake and keep her head above water. She'd never felt such bone-deep weariness before. Life with Legolas was a tranquil routine of cooking, cleaning, tending to the garden, tending to his needs, and maintaining an air of polite civility toward the king at the occasional royal ball. None of those things had prepared her for what she was now enduring. Her body screamed in protest. Joints howled, muscles and tendons sang, her muddled mind reeled in a confused fog. Not for the first time, she cursed King Thranduil.  
  
Then, blessedly, her feet scraped the tenuous bottom of the bog. At last she would be able to collapse on the undulating surface of a hummock and drift into a few precious hours of dreamless sleep. But as she stepped toward the fuzzy outline of the ever-nearing fragment of solid ground, something curled around her foot. Trying to shake it loose, she jiggled her foot. Nothing happened. She tugged harder. Still no give. I've never encountered such a tenacious reed bef- An ominous realization struck her. This wasn't a reed. Reeds didn't tighten their grip. "Sna-," was all she had time to scream before she was pulled beneath the blackness.  
  
The bog washed over her like a perverse baptism, the thick sludge rendering her deaf and dumb. She could not see that Telvryn was frantically splashing about above her, trying desperately to retrieve her from the depths. She saw only darkness. She struggled against the lithe coil wrapped around her lower leg, but it was no use. She was too weak to fight. Each movement brought a corresponding tightening from the creature. It was like a vise.  
  
Gradually, her struggles lessened as her lungs began to fail. Her arms and legs relaxed, and her mind, pulling itself away from the imminence of its own demise, filled with a happy vision. She and Legolas racing across the plains outside of Mirkwood on their magnificent stallions, the wind in their faces as they laughingly, lovingly challenged each other to races to one point or another. The fluid, constant gliding of the horses as mile after mile of grassland fell away behind them, and the breathless kisses to the victor. You'll never fee-  
  
She never got to finish the thought. Just as she was about to taste the lips of death, she was jerked from the water with such force that the back of her sentry's uniform gave way with a wet purr. She couldn't believe she was still alive. She was too stunned to draw breath. Then she took a great, whooping gasp of air. She coughed, expelling a jet of vile black water.  
  
When her eyes focused at last, she found herself staring into a pair of bright green eyes.  
  
"You," he said.  
  
Their companion had awakened. 


	12. Elrond

King Elrond sat in the darkness less than a day from the mines of Moria. He dared not light a fire, lest it attract the attention of any roving orcs. He was here alone. He wanted his departure from Rivendell kept secret for as long as possible. The last thing he wanted was to incite panic. Things had been botched enough already. How had it come to this?  
  
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed to think, and think clearly. Saryn's flight had rattled him to the core. The wounded elves had been brought past as he'd been surreptitiously packing his supplies. A pitiful lot they had been, clutching wounded arms and legs and grimacing in pain. His first instinct had been to stay behind and tend to them, but in his heart he knew he could not if he wanted to reach the mines and Lothlorien in time.  
  
When he had been sure that no more could be done in Rivendell, he'd mounted his horse and set off for the Passage of Elbereth, a long-forgotten cavern that led from the castle at Rivendell all the way to the mines of Moria. Built during the First Age, it was widely used as a trading route. After the advent of the Dark Lord Sauron, it served as an escape route for wretched creatures fleeing before his scourge. When peace had returned, the usefulness and need for the passage had diminished until it was forgotten by everyone. Everyone except himself and Gandalf, that was. He'd ridden for days through the inky blackness, vainly hoping that perhaps the escapees had stumbled across this road as well, but they had not. Less than an hour ago, he'd emerged from the cavern to find himself within sight of Moria. Now he waited for daylight.  
  
He started at a soft rustling behind him, but relaxed when he realized that it was only the sound of his mount, Ghidra, munching contentedly on the tender grasses. Events of the past months had made him a nervous wreck. He hardly dared sleep for fear of some sentry bursting in to tell him the Ring had been lost. You mean like last night? said a soft, sly voice inside his head. Yes, like last night. Exactly like last night, as a matter of fact.  
  
He made himself as comfortable as possible under his rich maroon cloak and laid back, his hands beneath his head. He pondered the routes the pair may have taken. Now that she knew Legolas was headed for Mordor, she was no doubt heading on an intercept course to Lothlorien. With the huge head start the party had, it was highly unlikely she would reach him. Unless…but no. Surely she knew not of that place.  
  
What if she does? She was with Telvryn, after all, and if memory served, Telvryn's grandfather was a gatherer of ancient elven lore. There was little doubt he knew of Basylis and his bog, and the old man was notoriously loose-lipped about all he knew. Telvryn had merely to stroke his ego, and the fellow would divulge anything. If he'd told his grandson about the treacherous bog, then that was where they would now be, for Saryn's grief was persuasive. It had nearly snared him the night he locked her in the tower. If they had truly gone into the bog, there was little chance either of them would be seen again.  
  
Realizing he could do nothing about events already past, he turned his mind to other things. He reflected on how strange it was that he should be here at all, all things considered. Born of an elven mother and a human father, his beginnings had been less than auspicious. Though elves were willing to trade with men and entertain friendship with them, they frowned upon intermarriage with other races. Things were made worse by the fact that his mother, Elwind, rumored to be the fairest maiden in all of elvendom, died in childbirth. Now, he had been a mongrel without a mother.  
  
His father, a soldier in the elven army under the great King Elendil of Mirkwood, tried his best to raise him in the elven ways, having forsaken human customs to be with his mother. Despite his father's best efforts, growing up had been painful. He had inherited his mother's keen hearing, and wherever he went, he gritted his teeth against murmurs of "half-breed" and "mongrel."  
  
Just when he thought it could get no worse, it did. His father, a faithful and loyal servant of the king's, was sent to investigate rumors of strange, ruined, hateful creatures lurking in the valley of Mordor. He never returned. Search parties later recovered the torn, savaged, mutilated bodies of his father and the twelve other men in his party. Most were unrecognizable. That had been one of Middle Earth's first encounters with orcs.  
  
King Elendil was a good and kind man, and in tribute to his father's faithful service, he had taken Elrond in as a page in his court. Though he was grateful for the shelter and acceptance he found there, he was devastated by his loss. Still quite young, only three hundred, he often wandered through the castle corridors weeping. If the king knew of these nocturnal travels, he gave no sign.  
  
As the centuries passed, the benevolent king grew quite fond of young Elrond, who had grown into a handsome, strong, just man. For seven hundred years, he had been his faithful servant. It was still a surprise, though, when the king had summoned him into his private study. Even after all these years, he could remember thinking how odd it was that the king should want to see him there, when for seven centuries, he had always been called to the opulent throne room.  
  
Things grew even more bizarre when he entered the study to find it quite full. Besides the king, there had been assembled a striking woman with flowing red hair, a bored blonde man to her right, Prince Thranduil on the left of the king, and a beaming wizard behind the throne.  
  
"Sit Elrond," the king commanded when he entered.  
  
He had sunk weak-kneed into the nearest chair, convinced he was about to be punished for some grievous infraction. What had he done? Had he forgotten to deliver an important message? Had he served the wrong tea? He racked his brain, trying desperately to figure out what he had done.  
  
The king must have sensed his discomfort, for he said with a smile, "Calm yourself, boy. You have done no wrong."  
  
He nearly wept with relief.  
  
"Now then, first things first," declared Elendil in a business-like tone. These people you see before you are the royalty of the elven kingdoms, save one. You know my son. The lady is Her Majesty Queen Galadriel of Lothlorien; the gentleman, her husband, Celeborn."  
  
He nodded and bowed, more confused than ever. Celeborn looked quite the twit, an impression he wisely kept to himself.  
  
"And this," continued Elendil with a vague gesture of his hand, "is Gandalf, a promising young mage. I trust you have heard of him?"  
  
"It pains me to say that I have not, Your Majesty," he confessed, eyeing the young wizard with curiosity. He was young, perhaps twenty, with long blonde hair and contemplative blue eyes.  
  
Elendil raised a thin eyebrow at this, but only said, "Ah…it matters not. I have a proposition for you, young Elrond."  
  
Elrond sat up straighter, intrigued.  
  
"You have been under my care for how long now, seven hundred years?" he asked.  
  
"Yes, my lord," he answered. He wasn't sure where this was going.  
  
"You have become like a son to me," mused the king, looking at him fondly.  
  
"And you as a father," he conceded. It was true. After the initial shock of his father's death, he'd been drawn in by the monarch's compassion. Slowly, he'd begun to confide in the king, releasing all of his pain, his anger, and his fear. In turn, the king confided his cares and worries to the young page and later steward. There was a strong bond between them.  
  
"Have you noticed the dark clouds over Mordor?" asked Elendil.  
  
This was an odd question indeed, and he wasn't certain what it had to do with their relationship. "Yes, my lord. I have seen the dark, churning clouds that hang like a pall over the mountains."  
  
The king nodded, satisfied. "In all my time upon this earth, I have never seen clouds such as those. I fear they are a portent of a great calamity.  
  
There was a long silence. He didn't know how to respond. Finally the king spoke again. "A request such as this has never been made before and will probably never be made again. But for the unease now stirring in my heart, it would not be made at all. There is coming a great battle, one that will cost Middle Earth much, and I have but one heir. If one or both of us should fall, Mirkwood would be left leaderless. This I cannot allow. Thus I ask you, will you be my second son and heir?"  
  
Elrond sat thunderstruck. This was the last thing he had expected. The world grayed dangerously, and for a moment, he thought he was going to faint. His mouth worked but nothing came out. "I-uh-uh," was all he could manage.  
  
"This is not a decision to be made lightly," interrupted Elendil, "for if you accept, you must forsake all traces of your humanity. No one of mixed blood has ever sat upon an elvish throne. When your father joined with your mother, she bestowed upon him the gift of immortality, a trait passed on to you. But your partial humanity made the gift imperfect. As you may have noticed, you look older than your peers of similar age."  
  
He had indeed. While most elves stopped their aging process at no later than twenty-one, he looked nearly thirty. Only Celeborn looked older, once again prompting suspicions about his intelligence to arise in Elrond's mind.  
  
"Ponder your decision well. Once done, it cannot be undone. You have one day to fix your mind upon an answer. Would that I could give you more, but there isn't much time. If you refuse, I will not love you any less."  
  
With that he had been dismissed. For the rest of that day and most of the night, he roamed the realm of Mirkwood, his mind a maelstrom of confusion, anxiety, and guilt. It was clear that Elendil greatly desired his consent, and he was quite fond of the king, but still his heart could not shake the notion that to accept the offer would be to dishonor his father's memory. His father. The great man who had raised him from infancy. Who had instilled in him a love for the elves and a sense of honor so profound that not even Sauron could corrupt it. For the first time in many years, he wept for his father.  
  
In the end the decision had come to him on the wings of a memory. He was standing in the same spot where, twenty-three hundred years hence, Legolas and Saryn would construct a bower, when the glade changed, replaced by a scene so vivid it took his breath. He sank bonelessly to the ground and watched the past unfold.  
  
It was he and his father. He saw himself as a young boy, dressed in the soft grey tunic and trousers common to all elves. In his hand is a light pine bow, and he is smiling. Beside him stands his father, tall and proud, his hazel eyes gazing down at his progeny with pride and love. Neither of them are burdened with the knowledge that in two months' time, he will be torn asunder by the merciless orcs, and that Elrond will be driven to the brink of madness by the sight of his father's horror-glazed eyes as they bring the body somberly through the streets of Mirkwood. For now, they only revel in their time together.  
  
"Ready?" asks his father, and man-Elrond watches in dreadful fascination as the boy he was nods in eager anticipation. Then his father pitches something into the air. The boy takes careful aim and lets fly, and there is a solid chuk as the arrow hits home.  
  
"Splendid!" cries his father, pleased. The boy laughs, an innocent, uncomplicated sound that fills the gentle twilight breeze and elicits a groan of longing from the man huddled in the corner. The memory is huge, overwhelming. He is suffocating beneath its weight, and still it will not let him go.  
  
The practice lasts until they can no longer see the target. As they walk back home down the familiar forest path, he hears the words that will forever change his destiny.  
  
"People have often asked me if I regret forsaking the realm of men for that of the elves," his father is saying to the boy, "and I tell you I do not. Mark me, my son, I would sacrifice everything to protect this land and these people."  
  
"Alright, alright," he had screamed then, terrified that if he did not break the memory's hold it would destroy him. "I will do it! Torment me no more!"  
  
Everything went black, and when he had come to himself again, he realized it was dawn. His face was still wet with tears and sweat. Drained, he walked back to his quarters on bones that suddenly felt hollow. His sleep had been heavy and dreamless.  
  
"I'll do as you ask," he told the king as he stood before him and the others the following afternoon.  
  
"Bless you,' sighed the king, "I know it was difficult for you." He had taken notice of Elrond's pinched face and red eyes. "Let us begin."  
  
Queen Galadriel stepped forward. She seemed to glide rather than walk. As she drew near, he could smell her, a heady, spicy scent of fresh cinnamon. Her soft red hair glowed like muted fire, and her lavender eyes spoke of compassion and love.  
  
"Are you ready?" she asked.  
  
"I shall never be ready, but there is nothing to be done for it."  
  
"Are you afraid?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"It is good that you answer honestly. The king has chosen well." Her voice swam over his ears like honey.  
  
She placed her cool hands on either side of his head. Instantly, he was filled with a white heat that radiated to every part of his body. He expected pain, but there was none, only a queer stretching sensation. He could hear her chanting softly, but the words were indistinct. They filled him with a long sought for peace, and he felt a rush of disappointment when she took her hands away.  
  
He understood immediately that something was different. Even if his body had not felt suddenly awkward and unfamiliar, the expressions on the faces of everyone around him would have given it away. Everyone seemed pleased except for Prince Thranduil, who scowled discreetly behind his father's back.  
  
"Behold what you have become," said Elendil, his voice little more than a croak.  
  
He walked to the mirror the king had pointed out on legs that had suddenly become unwieldy. What he saw there in its polished made him gasp. All trace of his humanity was gone. His once round face was now long and angular. His hair, once thick and unmanageable, lay easily on his shoulders. His broad fingers had tapered into long, slender digits. The biggest change, though, had been his eyes. The only trait from his father, his hazel eyes had turned a rich, glittering brown. He greeted these changes with a mixture of wonder and sadness. For good or for ill, the last tie to his father had been severed.  
  
Few outside of the king and his witnesses had been pleased with the declaration of Elrond as second heir, least of all Prince Thranduil, who brooded constantly. Sharing his inheritance had not been part of his plan, and he said so to anyone who would listen. Their relationship, already tepid at best, now grew chill. So great was his jealousy that soon he refused to be seen in the same room with his new brother. In spite of his biological son's reticence, Elendil never wavered in his support for his adopted son, a fact for which Elrond had always been grateful.  
  
The calamity wise Elendil feared did indeed come to pass. A scant two years after his adoption into the royal family, orcs were sighted as far west as Bree, and a desperate envoy of men arrived in Mirkwood to plead for help. Sauron had already conquered the dwarves and a few small bands of men. The men of Bree and Gondor and the elves were all that remained to resist Sauron and his plague of darkness. For many long days, the men and Elendil conferred in tense, hushed tones. Finally it was decided. In March 3434 of the Second Age, the armies of men and elves massed on the slopes of Mount Doom for a desperate last stand against Sauron.  
  
Everyone except Elrond was surprised when it was he, and not Prince Thranduil, that went into battle alongside the king. Elrond had always suspected his "brother" was hoping he would die in battle, thereby solving all of his problems. Thus, it was he who witnessed the king's bravery in battle, he who stood alongside the elves as they struggled for their lands and freedom. And it was also he that saw his second father die much like his first, pierced by the poisoned tip of an orc's arrow. It was he who shrieked his rage at the wind, and he who threw himself wildly against the enemy that had slain both of his fathers. It was here that the outcast mongrel truly became an elven king.  
  
After Sauron was defeated(or so they had believed), he returned to Mirkwood, heartsick and bearing the king's body. It seemed the king had one last gift in store for Elrond. Anticipating his own demise, Elendil had made a will. In it, he made a startling bequest. Instead of granting the entire estate to Thranduil, he divided the expansive kingdom in two, rendering the part known as Rivendell to Elrond.  
  
Elrond had been dumbstruck. The area known as Rivendell was the richest, most verdant region of the elven kingdom, a fact not lost on Prince Thranduil, who had been nearly apoplectic with rage when that particular revelation had been made. His reaction told Elrond it would be wise to leave for his new realm as quickly as possible, and so he did, taking with him a few hundred men he had won over with his bravery in battle.  
  
So it was that he came to be King Elrond of Rivendell, a title that had placed him in his present situation, lying under his cloak and ruminating on how best to salvage a terrible situation. He'd made a mistake in not telling Saryn the whys and wherefores of her husband's departure. Perhaps if he'd calmly explained the situation, she would've been amenable to awaiting his return in Rivendell. Instead, he'd imprisoned her in the tower like a callous tyrant, stopping his ears to her pitiful wails. Now she was on the loose in some forsaken bog, most likely dead. And carrying Legolas' child no less. He was sure how he could bring himself to tell the young man. What a mess.  
  
That's not the only mistake you've ever made, said the same sly, calculating voice inside his head. What about Isildur, eh? You could've spared everyone untold heartache now if you'd only pushed him into the burning, gaping maw of Mountain Doom then, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it. You were too much of a coward.  
  
He pushed the thought away viciously. It hadn't been cowardice that stayed his hand; it had been compassion. He could not bring himself to slay a man who had, until moments before, been his ally. Nor could he entertain the idea of the bloodshed that would ensue once men found out that their prince was no more. He could have done it, he supposed, could have shoved Isildur into the glowing crater, ring and all, but there would've been no honor it. He had been afraid the sons of men would have seen the lie in his face and killed him for it.  
  
Even if that were so, said the voice in a mocking sneer, how do you explain that night in the freezing rain, the night you abandoned your greatest responsibility. And slowly, inexorably his mind tried to turn to that fateful night when his honor had failed him.  
  
He resisted with all his will. He would not, could not face that night. Not yet. Not until he reached Lothlorien and Galadriel. Perhaps not even then. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He had never before felt so helpless. So alone. 


	13. A New Threat

When Saryn had regained a measure of strength, she raised herself to all fours in the elbow deep water. The eyes looking down at her were hard but not angry. Rather she detected a glint of bemusement in them. The tall figure abruptly grabbed her by the arm and dragged her onto the squelching, rank hummock. He said nothing as she lay gasping and sputtering on the mushy earth. He merely watched her with those unsettling eyes.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asked when he was sure she could speak.  
  
"Yes, thanks to you," she coughed, wiping a heavy, matted clot of hair from her face.  
  
Her rescuer was about to say something further when Telvryn came sloshing into view. His long blonde hair was plastered to his mud-streaked face. His uniform clung to him, a runner of snot hanging from his small, rounded nose. His blue eyes were fevered bulbs in overheated sockets. His chest heaved from exertion and sorrow. "My Lady," he called urgently, and from his mournful tone and drooping shoulders, it was clear he thought her lost.  
  
"Telvryn," she called, waving with both grimy hands.  
  
His head snapped to where she sat. A joyful hoot erupted from him, and he bounded and floundered to him, churning up great clouds of mud and silt. He clambered up the embankment and threw himself onto her with relieved exuberance, nearly knocking the wind out of her again.  
  
"You're alive!" he cried, smothering her with hugs and clumsy kisses on the face. He was braying with hysterical laughter.  
  
"Telvryn, mind yourself," she reprimanded weakly. "I am a married woman, and a pregnant one at that." She tried to fix a stern, disapproving expression on her face but failed, dissolving into shrill giggles. They laughed and hugged like wanton lunatics until a soft baritone voice interrupted.  
  
"Your lover, I presume," her rescuer said.  
  
She was on her feet so quickly that she didn't even register she was moving until it was almost over. She flew at her savior and delivered two smart, vicious backhands in quick succession, the sound echoing like small thunderclaps through the claustrophobic bog. "He is no lover of mine," she spat at him as he staggered backward and touched his reddening cheeks. "I have but one lover, and his name is Legolas of Mirkwood. For two hundred years it has been thus, and so will it always be. I will kill any man who doubts it." She turned and stalked back to her spot on the hummock and sat down.  
  
"Fine way to show gratitude to one who has saved your life," he retorted drily, still rubbing his now tender cheeks.  
  
"Save her life? She…we saved your life, you ungrateful fool!" shouted Telvryn, coming to life after goggling for several moments in silent stupefaction.  
  
"I fail to see how putting an arrow in my neck can be called saving my life," he answered.  
  
"That I did not intend," she hissed popping to her feet with a loud sucking sound.  
  
"If I should kill your beloved, precious Legolas, though it not be what I intended, would you not despise me all the same?" he shot back, his own temper beginning to flare.  
  
She opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap. For the first time in a long time, she could think of nothing to say. He was right. No matter what the circumstances, if Legolas were to fall be his hand, she would hate him with all the force of her being. She would be a hypocrite if she criticized him for doing the same. She dropped slowly to the ground and folded her arms across her drawn up knees.  
  
"I hardly think-," Telvryn began, but she silenced him with a shake of her head.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'm sorry to both of you for everything, but I have no choice." She was dangerously close to tears.  
  
"You had a choice in every decision you have made. You had the choice not to break Elrond's law," responded Cerek.  
  
"I am obeying a higher law," she said, rancor kindling in her voice again.  
  
"What law is there high than that of King Elrond?" he challenged, advancing toward her. She infuriated him, this impudent, high-born, muddy waif.  
  
"The law of my heart that calls me to my husband," she said, unflinching before his furious gaze. "When I joined myself to him, I made a vow to love and protect him no matter the cost. It is an oath I do not take likely."  
  
"By following the law of your heart, you nearly cost me my life."  
  
"And in stopping to pick you up and rescue you from the fate of drowning in your own blood, she nearly lost her own. Who are you to besmirch the character of so fine a lady?" shouted Telvryn.  
  
It was the first time he'd lost his temper, and she watched him, pleasantly intrigued. It was a previously unknown side of him. She was strangely pleased by it.  
  
"My name is Cerek Blackbark, sentry and loyal servant of King Elrond. Not a traitor like you, who has betrayed your king and realm by falling for the guiles of this selfish, arrogant, manipulative wench."  
  
"I am no traitor, and I will have your head for the accusation. Lady Saryn no wench, and for that aspersion, I will have your heart!" Telvryn had gone an alarming, livid purple, and he reached for his sword.  
  
"Stay your hand, Telvryn," she said, gently grasping his arm. She could feel the tendons therein thrumming with rage and adrenaline. To Cerek she said, "I would betray a thousand kings and all of their empires to protect my beloved Legolas from harm."  
  
He rounded on her, fists clenching and unclenching. "Pray, Lady, tell me, from what danger do you shield him?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Is your husband so impotent and useless a man that he cannot protect himself from a few puling orcs?"  
  
"He has gone to Mordor."  
  
That simple sentence momentarily rattled him. He blanched, and his fists froze in mid-clench. "It is madness to journey to Mordor. I can think of no reason for any sane thing to seek out that ruined place," he said at last.  
  
"Then you serve a madman, for it was King Elrond who ordered him there," she said calmly.  
  
Rage twisted Cerek's face. "MY KING IS NO MADMAN, YOU VILE, UNREPENTANT WHORE!" he shrieked, the cords of his neck standing in sharp relief against his plum face. He moved to strike her across the bridge of her nose, and would have done so had not Telvryn connected with a solid punch to his left eye.  
  
Now it was her turn to goggle, frog-like, as the two young elves grappled with one another and fell, rolling down the embankment into the water. Telvryn was trying without success to grab his opponent by the points of his ears, points as sensitive as genitals to a male elf. He had nearly succeeded when Cerek jabbed him in the eye. Howling and blind, he was powerless to keep him from pushing his head beneath the surface.  
  
Seeing her faithful companion about to be drowned galvanized her into action. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she charged into the water and seized Cerek by the delicate points of his ears. The results were immediate. Letting go of Telvryn's head, he clutched frantically at her fingers, trying to pry them loose. He was bellowing and keening in rage and agony. Frodo, had he been present to hear the sounds, would have thought it a ringwraith. He bucked and twisted, throwing an occasional elbow at her exposed stomach. She shifted away as much as she could, knowing that if he met his target she would lose the child for certain. "Telvryn, help me," she pleaded. Her strength was fading. Cerek was strong, impossibly strong, and she couldn't hold on much longer.  
  
Telvryn responded to her frightened call by punching the struggling Cerek in the nose. It broke with a dull, muffled snap. Now his angry screams had a congested, watery timbre. There was another snap, this one crisp and sharp, as Telvryn crushed his cheekbone. Now the screams were high-pitched and pleading, wrenching her heart in spite of what he had done. She was about to tell Telvryn to stop when all noise and struggle ceased and the body sagged into her arms. He had finally blacked out from the pain.  
  
She released his ears and sat back with a flop. She had exhausted all her strength, and a wave of dizziness passed over her. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from passing out. When the feeling passed, she ruefully investigated the damage to Cerek's face and winced at what she saw. Both his eyes were beginning to swell and blacken. Blood still gushed from his flattened nose, and the alluring line of his left cheekbone was marred by a grotesque ridge where the bone was pushing against the skin. She thought she might be sick again.  
  
"Are you alright?" she asked after they had rested a few moments.  
  
"I think so," came the reply.  
  
When they were both sure their legs wouldn't give out on them, they lugged the once more unconscious body of Cerek onto the hummock and set him down.  
  
"We better tie him up," she sighed. "No telling what he'll do now."  
  
Telvryn removed the belt from Cerek's uniform, and she unlaced his boots. Working quickly, they tied his arms and legs together behind his back and ran a boot lace from those bindings through the holes of the raft on which they'd carried him. For good measure, they gagged him with his wet cloak.  
  
With their new adversary thus secured, they settled in for the night. Their cloaks water-logged and no way to make a fire, they could only huddle together for warmth and comfort in the yawning, all-consuming darkness. They had survived their first day in the bog.  
  
Now they prayed to last the night. 


	14. Second Meeting

They awoke at dawn the next morning to the sound of Cerek's muffled screams of pain. They had slept little the night before, five hours at the most, and they were both stiff and tired. Saryn struggled to her feet, joints popping. She shambled to where their captive lay facedown in the muck. "Hurts does it? Well, it's your own fault; you shouldn't have tried to drown Telvryn."  
  
He glared at her as best he could through his swollen eyes as she crouched down beside him.  
  
"I know you, think me mad," she said, gently touching his unbroken cheek, "but I assure you that I really meant you no harm. I only wish to be with my husband. No more harm will come to you at our hands unless you provoke it. We intend to leave you in Lothlorien. They'll tend to you there, and you will be rid of us forever."  
  
He scowled at her, jerking away from her cool hand. She sighed and moved away from him. She could afford to waste no more energy on him. She had so little left, and she was going to need every bit of it if she wanted to see Legolas again. Telvryn was moving around doing what little he could to prepare for the second day of their wretched trek. She noticed with some chagrin that he was sporting a black eye of his own, a souvenir from last night's scuffle no doubt.  
  
"Did you sleep well?" she asked, scrutinizing his eye.  
  
"Not nearly as well as I wished," he said. He handed her a chunk of slightly moldy bread. "Not the best I know, but it's all we've got, and even that's not going to last the whole journey. Neither is the water. I figure three sips a day is all we can risk."  
  
"What about him?" she asked.  
  
"I don't care about him. He can die here. I think we should leave him here."  
  
"We can't do that."  
  
"Why not? No one will ever know. We could say he was taken by a serpent, and no one would be the wiser."  
  
"I would be the wiser, and my heart cannot abide it. He is frightened, confused, and angry. I did nearly kill him."  
  
"Your heart is too soft, and it will lead us all to great ill," he muttered and sauntered off to relieve himself.  
  
While Telvryn was so engaged, she took the water flask and returned to the fuming Cerek. "I don't believe you will be able to eat with your cheek in its present condition, but perhaps you can take a drink," she said, uncorking the flask. She removed his cloak from his mouth and poured the cool, clear liquid over his parched lips.  
  
He relished it for a moment, parting his lips to let it drizzle over his sandpaper tongue. Then he remembered who it was holding the flask and spit it out, trying as hard as he could to hit her in the face. "I want nothing your pernicious lips have touched," he snarled, yelping as the bones of his cheek ground together.  
  
"Suit yourself," she said, replacing the cork and refastening the gag around his mouth.  
  
They set off as soon as Telvryn returned from his morning toilet, wading into the chest-deep filth. The dried muck of yesterday was promptly replaced by a fresh coating. The rich, gassy fetor brought about her morning sickness, and she retched forcefully. So much for that nourishing moldy bread this morning, she thought as she paddled along. Lords of Elbereth, how she wished this journey was at and end and she enfolded in Legolas' strong arms. She was tired of this bleak, hopeless darkness, tired of having to be always on guard for hidden dangers, and tired of constantly worrying about the damage she might be doing to her unborn child. This was not the pregnancy she had envisioned over countless starry nights after she and Legolas had coupled, the sweat not yet dry on their toned bodies, and she said as much to Telvryn, who was a few feet ahead, doggedly pulling the raft behind him.  
  
"For what kind did you hope?" he asked, slowing his pace so that she could catch up.  
  
"Oh, I entertained the most splendid of daydreams! I rehearsed exactly what I would say to him, and savored the joyous countenance I would behold when he heard the news. I imagined all of the little gifts and kindnesses he would shower upon me, how he would sweep open doors and hover protectively near when we went into the village square.  
  
"I fantasized about him placing his gentle hands upon my swollen belly and marveling at the movements and kickings of his coming child. I pictured him happily whittling the finest of woods to make a cradle. Yet, here I am, swimming through the foul waters of the Bay of Basylis with a rogue sentry and vengeance-seeking lunatic."  
  
"I could not help but notice," he said with a smirk, "that you forgot to mention the part about sending him out for fresh tomatoes and chocolate in the dead of night when your time drew near."  
  
"Indeed I did," she laughed. "Though I daresay fresh pickles are more to my liking."  
  
After a brief silence, he spoke again. "I shouldn't much trouble myself m'lady. If your Legolas is half the man you believe him to be, he'll waste little time in properly spoiling you. I'll wager my last gildnar he buries you in fine silks and useless baubles. He'll need to be unconscious to leave you unattended again."  
  
She smiled. He was right. Legolas probably would spoil her to excess in his happiness. The glen they shared would be plucked bare of wildflowers, and her father would have enough work for ten seasons. When the child came, the looms would spin endlessly as mile after mile of rich green swaddling and tiny boots found life.  
  
"He's lucky," Telvryn said, interrupting her thoughts.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Legolas."  
  
"Why?" She was puzzled.  
  
"To have someone like you. You are a remarkable woman. I know of none other who would brave such a journey to be with the one she loves. Most would have gratefully accepted the sanctuary of Rivendell and awaited his return." He sounded strangely despondent."  
  
"It was not luck that brought he and I together, but fate. Besides, surely there are other women who would do the same if they but knew him. Just as someone will someday do for you. You'll see," she said.  
  
"There will be no one for me," he said, sounding more crestfallen than ever. "Before your husband sent me to deliver his letter, I was but a stupid, lazy boor who preferred sleeping to my duty. I still am. The only reason we are on this journey is because I was too much of a coward to stop you in the first place." He said this with such a surety that it frightened her.  
  
"Surely you can't really believe that?" she asked, touching his arm.  
  
He made no answer, only ducked his head and soldiered on. The discussion was apparently over. They trudged on, the silence broken only by the steady drone of the clouds of mosquitoes and gnats that hovered around their heads and the intermittent grunts of Cerek as he tried to breathe through his broken nose. The bugs were even worse than yesterday, most likely attracted by the smell of stale sweat. She idly wondered if Legolas would even recognize her underneath all the crusted-on mud, blood, and filth. A fine thing that would be, to travel all this way to be with her husband just to be mistaken for an orc and felled by one of his arrows. She snorted laughter. Telvryn looked at her questioningly, but she only shook her head.  
  
Mile after mile passed, and with each step, the sentry jerkin she had been wearing grew looser. It hung in tatters on her shoulders, revealing the translucent gown beneath. Her pale breasts were clearly visible through the thin fabric, a fact of which she was keenly aware. Telvryn, too, had noticed, and he was doing his level best to keep from staring. She crossed her arms over her chest and kept moving.  
  
They stopped to rest on the first hummock they encountered, flopping down on the tremulous earth. Her breasts swayed suggestively, causing her companion to choke on his allotted sip of water.  
  
"Well, keep your eyes to the front then," she scolded.  
  
"I'm sorry, m'lady," he muttered, flushing a dark crimson.  
  
"If you cannot trust yourself to control your baser instincts, perhaps you should give me your jerkin," she said, holding out her hand.  
  
He considered for a moment, then reached up and drew the jerkin over his head, revealing taut white flesh. His chest and stomach were soft, yet deceptively so, for she could see traces of lithe musculature under his satin skin. Like buffed marble. She wondered what it would be like to trace her nails over its smooth surface. She shook herself. What are you thinking? You are quite joined. Stop this. She tore her eyes away and slipped the jerkin over her head.  
  
Thusly covered, she limped over and sat beside Cerek, who eyed her warily.  
  
"Don't worry. I mean you no ill," she said.  
  
A grumbled reply sounded from beneath the gag, and she gently pulled it off. "What?"  
  
"Being near you does me ill," he hissed.  
  
"Flattery will get you nowhere," she responded blithely. Now do you want a sip of water or not?"  
  
"No."  
  
"This is no time to be stubborn," she pleaded. His tongue was white from dehydration, and she was worried that if he didn't drink something soon his organs would begin shutting down.  
  
"I hope you and your spawn both perish in this unforgiving place," he said.  
  
She sighed. "Try as you might to turn me from my purpose, I am determined that you drink something."  
  
She uncorked the flask and pressed it to his lips. He clamped his mouth shut and turned his head. This close, she could see that his mouth had been rubbed raw from the constant pressure of the slime-caked cloak. His lips were cracked and bleeding. She followed his mouth, refusing to give up.  
  
"I can sit here all night," she said placidly.  
  
He only redoubled his efforts to evade the proffered water. He strained his neck trying to knock the flask from her hand. Why so stubborn? she thought. Then a new thought occurred to her. He is just as stubborn as you are. You two are more alike than he cares to admit. Too bad he has chosen to channel all that energy into blind hatred.  
  
"Does it distress you to see yourself reflected in the mirror of my face?" she whispered.  
  
He froze. He was gasping from the exertion of his struggles to avoid her. Then he began wrenching to and fro harder than before, his face redder than ever. "I am not like you! You belong in this wretched bog, woman with a forked tongue. Get away from me!"  
  
Clearly he was not going to cooperate. "Telvryn," she called, "I need your help."  
  
"Why do you waste your time and our water with that foolish ingrate?" he said, not rising.  
  
"Because I have no intention of being led away in chains because he died under my care. No doubt they would think I tortured him and deprived him of all sustenance, and it certainly would appear so if one were to look upon his ruined face." She put her free hand on her hip and turned to scowl at him.  
  
Telvryn reluctantly left his resting spot and came to stand beside her. "What would you have me do?"  
  
"I don't care, so long as he swallows the water."  
  
A malicious grin spread across his face and he leaped onto Cerek's back. He grabbed his hair with one hand and his chin with the other and pulled with all his might. There was a gritty grinding sound followed by a piercing scream, and his mouth stood wide open. She poured the water, too much, with suddenly shaking hands. As soon as his mouth was full, Telvryn slammed it shut and smashed the palm of his hand over Cerek's mouth and nose. "Swallow it or choke do death," he ordered, brutally pinching his tender nose shut.  
  
Cerek's face was rapidly turning purple, and she was suddenly sure he was going to die. Miraculously, Cerek's body relaxed and she saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Elbereth be praised, she thought. He collapsed, his body, shaking with sobs of humiliation.  
  
"You're not as stupid as you appeared," commented Telvryn jovially, pushing his victim's head into the raft one last time before getting up.  
  
"Leave off! There's no need for that," she snapped, trying to control her voice.  
  
"Have you so soon forgotten that he tried to break your nose and drown me?" Telvryn was looking at her incredulously.  
  
"Of course not, but every bruise or mark you leave upon him is another indictment against me should he die. Now leave off."  
  
He sniffed and spared Cerek a final contemptuous glance before returning to his resting place. She could tell he didn't believe her reasons for not wanting Cerek abused, but she didn't care. The important thing was that he stopped. If anyone had thought to ask her why she objected so his harsh treatment, she couldn't have given them a precise answer. It was simply a deeply ingrained abhorrence for seeing any living creature suffer and a diffuse desire that her decision to save him not be the wrong one.  
  
She turned to where he lay, hunched shoulders still shaking as he wept, and put her arm over him in a meek gesture of comfort. He shook her off.  
  
"This is all your fault," he sniffled, "all of it. If you had stayed in Rivendell, as you should have done, none of this would have happened. I would still be in my warm home, not here with a broken body. I never knew hate until I saw your face." He turned his face away and continued weeping.  
  
She moved away from him, wounded to the core. He was right, and she couldn't deny it. Everything that was happening now was a direct result of her decision to seek out Legolas. His broken face, this death march through the bog, all of it. She could never explain to him her desperation, her terror, and why they made this voyage necessary. Even if she could, he wouldn't understand.  
  
They moved out again, Telvryn walking a few yards ahead. He was desperately confused and ashamed. The sight of Saryn's wet breasts had excited him more than he liked to admit. He felt himself stiffening as the memory flitted across his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut to drive the vision away, but it only grew sharper, and he bit his lip to squelch a groan of longing. Women had never paid much attention to him. They were turned off by his laziness and aloof nature. Compounding the problem was his agonizing shyness. Every time he tried to make the acquaintance of a beautiful damsel, his tongue grew wooden and his legs turned to melting rubber. Sometimes he said something foolish. If he was lucky, he escaped with nothing more than a withering look and a sorely wounded pride. There had been many times, however, when he'd returned home with stinging cheeks or bruised testicles. Now, just his luck, the only woman to ever regard him with anything other than utter revulsion, was joined. He could never seem to catch a decent break.  
  
Behind him and oblivious to his torment, Saryn was lost in her own thoughts. She thought of anything to distract her mind from her body's weariness. Mostly, she thought about Legolas. She wondered what he was doing now and whether he missed her as much as she did him. Was he as filthy and bone-weary as she? She doubted it. The southern pass was crossed by the river Isen. He'd probably bathed there. Her bored mind drifted away on thoughts of her lover's bare chest and how it looked when water rilled down its smooth surface. How the rigid, strong muscles there rippled and flexed as he swam through the warm, crystal waters of their lagoon. An involuntary shudder coursed through her body as she remembered the luscious friction their bodies made as they moved together and how the sight of his sweaty chest glistening in the soft glow of the candlelight as they made love never failed to trigger an explosive climax. She dug her nails into the soft flesh of her palms to banish the tantalizing images crowding her head. They were awakening parts of her that need not be disturbed just yet. Soon, she thought. She gritted her teeth and kept walking.  
  
They walked mindlessly for untold hours, slogging through the clinging mud while their legs throbbed and sang in protest. Gradually, though, the greenish-black water began to recede, and several mossy hummocks became visible. Soon it would be time to set up camp.  
  
She was just about to ask Telvryn which one he thought would be best when a soft plip-swish caught her ear. She turned just in time to see two yellow dots submerge. No, not dots. Eyes. Serpent eyes.  
  
"TELVRYN, SNAKE!!" she howled, scrambling on to the nearest piece of land, a tiny scrap barely big enough to hold her, and drew her bow.  
  
Telvryn also sought out dry land. He headed for the hummock to the right of hers, but the snake was quicker. It darted its huge, spade head forward and coiled around his ankle. He cried out and dug his fingers into the soggy earth. The snake was stronger, and it pulled him inexorably toward the black depths.  
  
Breathless with panic and unaware that she was sobbing, she fitted an arrow and searched the water for a vulnerable target. When she thought she'd found one, she let fly. It struck flesh, and there was an ear- splitting shriek. The snake released Telvryn and turned in her direction.  
  
Its pus-yellow eyes glittering with malice, it raced toward her hummock, smashing into it with all its might. The impact jarred her, vibrating in her legs and rocking the flimsy hummock like a capsizing ship. She swayed and wobbled as the ground beneath her pitched and undulated. She struggled to fit another arrow as the snake readied for another charge.  
  
The snake lunged again, and the arrow she was holding flew from her grasp and landed in the water behind her. Her sanctuary was crumbling beneath her feet, giant cracks and runnels forming even as she fought to maintain her balance. A gap yawned beneath her feet, and her foot slipped into it. She fell sideways with a scream, her knee and ankle wrenching painfully. She was now defenseless.  
  
The snake, sensing victory, prepared to strike again, but it hadn't counted on the tenacity of faithful Telvryn. He sprang onto its back, sword in hand. Surprised, the snake screamed and rolled onto its back, trying to shake him off. Telvryn clamped his wiry arms and legs over the serpent's bulging sides and held on.  
  
On her rapidly disintegrating oasis, Saryn hobbled to her feet, limping painfully on her sprained knee and ankle. She groped for another arrow, already looking for a target. The pain in her leg was enormous, but she forced herself to focus. Telvryn's life depended on it.  
  
Underneath the blinding water, Telvryn prayed his air wouldn't run out before he could stab the snake. He lungs were screaming for air. He stabbed blindly in the dark, but each time he came up empty. The snake seemed to sense his strokes and easily moved away from them. Unless someone struck it right between the eyes, he was going to die.  
  
On the surface, Saryn stood on the remnants of her island and aimed her arrow at the dull yellow dot that was the serpent's eye. A strange coldness had come over her. There was no more panic, no more fear. Even the burning throb in her injured leg seemed far away. Everything stood out in a vivid, stark clarity. Her field of vision had narrowed to that miniscule yellow dot. She took a deep breath and released the bow.  
  
The arrow hit home. The eye exploded with a thick squt! The snake screeched and writhed, and Telvryn bobbed to the surface like a cork. With an enraged bellow, he drove his sword into the snake's head, stopping only when the hilt struck the base of the skull. His eyes were alight with a mad glee.  
  
"Die, die, you hellspawn!" he hollered, chest heaving.  
  
The snake convulsed, and a thick gout of gelid black blood erupted from the wound. Telvryn danced and gibbered as the snake sank beneath the turbulent water with a final guttering cry. Saryn collapsed on the hummock as the adrenaline ebbed from her body.  
  
Saryn's collapse brought Telvryn back to himself. He clambered up the embankment to where she lay, white-faced and trembling.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asked bending over her.  
  
"Never better," she replied cheerily.  
  
They exploded in hysterical, frightened laughter. So passed the second night in the bog of the damned. 


	15. Unpleasant Surprises

To say Gandalf was surprised to see King Elrond standing at the gates of Moria would've been a gross understatement indeed. He was so surprised that he stopped dead in his tracks. Pippin, as usual, paid no mind to where he trod and crashed into the mage's scrawny back.  
  
"L-lord Elrond," he stammered, "I did not expect to find you here."  
  
"Nor did I expect to be here, I assure you," he answered, stepping forward from the shadows of dusk. "However, something has happened that requires my immediate attention, and I am on my way to Lothlorien. I was hoping to travel there with the company."  
  
Out loud he said, "We'd be honored, Your Majesty," but privately he was gravely worried. Lord Elrond never left Rivendell, not even under threat of orc attack. Whatever business he had in Lothlorien must be of the utmost importance. The venerable elf looked gaunt and distracted. Clearly something was amiss, and he intended to get to the bottom of things. "What troubles you, sire?"  
  
"Nothing I wish to discuss at the moment," he said abruptly, but Gandalf saw his eyes flick furtively to Legolas.  
  
Legolas, too, saw the look, and he rested his hand on Elrond's forearm. "Sire, is all well with my father?" he asked.  
  
Elrond smiled thinly. "To my knowledge, your father is well. I have heard no ill tidings." He turned to go.  
  
"My wife, then?" he continued.  
  
Gandalf thought he saw the great elven king blanch, but the king answered, "My dear nephew, you worry yourself needlessly. I have received no word from Mirkwood, for good or for ill. Turn your mind to more pressing concerns, such as how we are to open the entrance to the mines."  
  
"That is quite a simple matter, King Elrond," said Gandalf, sensing he wanted to change the subject. "According to these inscriptions, we need only wait until the moon shines her light, and the way shall be revealed."  
  
"Alas, the moon shall not rise for another three-quarters of an hour," sighed Elrond. "Come Gandalf, my old friend, let us take a walk and discuss things, for I am sure much has come to pass."  
  
As they walked off into the quiet seclusion of an outcropping of boulders, Elrond saw Legolas' keen eyes following their every move. He suspects something, said the dreadful voice inside his head. Of course he did. Legolas was anything but stupid, and he himself had always been a terrible liar. He doubted he'd be able to conceal the truth for long.  
  
When they had ducked behind the outcropping, Elrond dropped listlessly to the ground. He rubbed shaking hands over his pale, exhausted face. "Oh Gandalf," he cried, "how can I begin to express the magnitude of the tragedy I have wrought by my arrogance?" He kneaded his temples with trembling fingers.  
  
"Of what do you speak?" asked Gandalf. He had never seen King Elrond so disconcerted.  
  
"My nephew I have deceived," he said in a dry, cracked voice.  
  
"Not very well," pointed out his companion.  
  
"Three weeks ago," continued Elrond as though he hadn't heard, "Lady Saryn, wife of Prince Legolas, came to Rivendell in search of him."  
  
"Why would she embark on such a journey? Most elven wives are quite content to stay behind."  
  
Elrond gave a tired smile. "Saryn is no ordinary woman. In my brief acquaintance with her, I found her to be quite determined. And she had elven law on her side."  
  
"I do not understand," said Gandalf, reaching for his pipe.  
  
"She was with child. Three weeks along, according to the midwives who examined her."  
  
"That's splendid. Does Legolas know?"  
  
"I'm almost certain he does not. The date of conception falls upon the same day as his departure for Rivendell. Neither of them would have known by then. But that is not the worst of it."  
  
"Oh?" said Gandalf, intrigued and uneasy.  
  
"Indeed. I refused to tell her whither he had gone, and she flew into a rage. In a moment of haste as I tried to reason with her, I let slip from my tongue his whereabouts. Like a fool I had her locked in the tower and ignored her heartfelt cries. I was arrogant in my power. I should have explained all to her as best I could. She made me pay for my presumptuousness. After three days, she escaped with the help of one of my own sentries, wounding many men and beasts."  
  
"Surely you captured her again and explained all?"  
  
"No. I did not. I feared more bloodshed and damage to her or the unborn should I intervene. I let her go. In doing so, I had hoped to spare my nephew a great hurt, but I have instead caused one greater. I have reason to believe that, in desperation to reach her beloved before he crossed into Mordor, she has gone into the Bay of Basylis."  
  
"Surely not!" cried Gandalf, nearly dropping his pipe. His face had gone the color of bleached parchment. "She is too young to know of that place."  
  
"Still your voice," hissed Elrond, alarmed. "Elven ears are sharp indeed." He peered anxiously around the outcropping. Sure enough, Legolas' gray eyes were riveted to where they sat. "I hoped as you, but the grandfather of her sentry is a collector of ancient lore, and he has surely spoken of it to Telvryn."  
  
"This is terrible news," muttered Gandalf, chewing thoughtfully on his pipe. "Have you hope that she yet lives?"  
  
"Precious little," sighed Elrond. "Legions of strong and brave men have perished in that place. I can see no way that a woman, especially one so young and in such condition, could survive for long. I have sent her and the child to their deaths." In a move that utterly unnerved the venerable wizard, the king began to weep, silent sobs shaking his thin shoulders.  
  
"Your Majesty," he said when he found his voice again, "though it is a great tragedy, I do not see why you punish yourself so severely. You only did what you thought best."  
  
"I have slain my own with my foolishness and weakness," he growled, swiping fiercely at his eyes.  
  
"Countless men have fallen under your command, and yet all those thousand deaths have not affected you so much as this one. Why?"  
  
"You would not understand," he answered, and said no more.  
  
"When do you intend to tell him then?"  
  
"If there is no sign of her by the time we reach Lothlorien, I will have no choice, though I am not sure how to do such a painful thing."  
  
There was an awkward silence, and then Gandalf said, "Ah, look, the moon rises. Let us return to the others and discover the way." He rose with an effort, and Elrond followed suit a moment later.  
  
They rejoined the others to find a spectacular sight. Where once there had been only cold black granite, there now stood the outline of a doorway limned in a soft white glow. Above it was an inscription in ancient Elvish, and Elrond repeated it softly to himself.  
  
"What does it say?" asked Pippin, squinting up at the elegant script.  
  
"It says, 'Balin, Lord of Moria commands speak Friend and enter,'" said Gandalf, tracing his hand over the delicate outline.  
  
"What does that mean?" said Pippin, more perplexed than ever. He had no patience for riddles.  
  
"Well, it's simple. You simply say the password and the door opens," answered the wizard, placing his hands upon the door.  
  
"Erel D'reth anya sa'il," he intoned, pressing against the door.  
  
Nothing happened. The door stayed shut. He tried again with no success. After a third attempt failed, he stepped away from the outline, quite confused. "It appears I need to think about it for a spell before we proceed," he announced, thoroughly embarrassed.  
  
For ninety minutes, Gandalf tried one incantation after another to no avail. Elrond noticed that the entire company was watching the little drama with varying degrees of bemusement. All save one. Legolas' eyes were boring into him like hot steel screws. Try as he might, he could not escape them. He wanted to shrink away from his gaze, the gaze that followed him like a sentence already imposed. But to shrink before his nephew would be an admission of the terrible truth, and that he could not yet face. Instead, he turned and gazed out over the small silver lake that bordered the mines. Its surface was smooth and placid. Perhaps if he concentrated long enough, he could calm his own hectic mind.  
  
He suspects, jeered the insidious voice of self-doubt that had nested in his mind since the Ring had been rediscovered. What do you think he will do when he finds out that your stupidity has cost him both his beloved wife and his heir? How great will his rage be? What will you do if he dies of grief? How will you explain it to his father, who has despised you more with every breath since the day you stole half of what was rightfully his? Surely he will unleash the armies of Mirkwood upon you. What will you do then? Can you bring yourself to kill King Elendil's only son, can you disgrace the man who opened his arms to you when the rest of the world shunned you, in such a manner? You have failed Middle Earth a second time, and this time your incompetence shall bring about the destruction of Rivendell.  
  
He hadn't realized he was hyperventilating until Pippin, who'd been idly skipping rocks across the pond, spoke.  
  
"Are you alright, sire?" he asked, his eyes full of concern.  
  
He was about to answer when Strider appeared and grabbed Pippin's arm. "Do not disturb the water," he said, apprehensively scanning the water.  
  
Elrond turned back to the lake. What had disturbed Strider so? His own keen eyes could detect nothing out of the ordinary. There was a dark patch toward the middle, but that was most likely weeds. It hadn't moved at all. Before he could investigate further, he was startled by a shout from behind him.  
  
"It's a riddle!" cried Frodo, his small voice squeaky with excitement.  
  
"What?" said Gandalf, rising from the slab of stone upon which he had been ruminating.  
  
"A riddle! What's the Elvish word for friend?" The little creature was practically dancing with excitement.  
  
"Moloch, why?" asked Gandalf.  
  
No sooner had he spoken than there was an enormous rumbling sound. The smooth black surface of the granite began to splinter and crack, and the great glowing door swung outward.  
  
"Well done, Frodo," praised Gandalf, and the hobbit swelled with pride.  
  
Inside the mine, it was dark, a soulless darkness that seemed to overpower anything within its reach. There was a musty, unused air about the place that unnerved Elrond. Even in a deep mine such as this, there should have been the distant echo of the pickaxe or the surly, boisterous grunts of the dwarves as they toiled. Yet there was nothing, save their own clumsy, tentative footsteps. Even the ground felt wrong, as though they were walking upon gritty, brittle pebbles.  
  
"There is something wrong here," called Boromir, giving voice to the disquiet Elrond was feeling.  
  
"Nonsense," retorted Gimli. To Legolas he said, "Soon Master elf, you will experience the fabled hospitality of the dwarves. All the ale and beer you can drink, red meat on the bone…" He sounded immensely pleased at the prospect.  
  
Elrond was not surprised when Legolas gave no answer. He didn't need light to know that a pair of intense gray eyes was resting upon him. It made the hackles on the back of his neck rise.  
  
"We shall settle the matter momentarily," declared Gandalf. There was a rustling, snapping sound, and the corridor was suffused with a soft, eerie light.  
  
"Elbereth save us," groaned Elrond when his eyes had adjusted.  
  
Hundreds, perhaps thousands of skeletons littered the mine floor. Moldering arrows protruded from the skulls and ribcages of most. Some had been decapitated. From their condition, they had been here for quite some time. Gimli was making guttural whining noises as he surveyed the carnage before him. For a moment no one moved, and then Legolas stepped forward and inspected a carcass.  
  
"Goblins," he pronounced, prying out an arrow and tossing it away with a grimace of disgust.  
  
"This is no city, it is a tomb. We should never have come here!" declared Boromir, trying to look in every direction at once. "Run! We make for the Gap of Rohan!"  
  
As they turned to flee, the dark patch in the lake exploded upward. What Elrond had taken for weeds were in truth monstrous tentacles. They waved wildly, extruding from a giant rounded body that looked like a great leathery turtle shell. Three sets of coal black eyes glared out at them. The largest tentacle lashed out and seized Frodo by his ankle, lifting him high into the air.  
  
"Strider, help me!" screamed Frodo, swinging ineffectually at the appendage that held him.  
  
Strider waded gamely into the churning water, drawing his sword. Boromir followed suit, looking for all the world like he was going to be sick. Legolas had drawn his bow and was firing madly at the multitude of slithering, grasping coils, his bowstring twanging feverishly. It was the first time since Elrond had arrived that his attention had been diverted elsewhere, and for that the king was grateful. Sam, having forgotten his small sword in the heat of the moment, was pounding the monster with chubby fists.  
  
"Let go of Master Frodo, damn you!" he bellowed, punctuating each word with a meaty thud.  
  
Elrond drew his sword and sprinted into the fray. He grabbed Sam and tucked him under his arm like a parcel, stabbing at the clutching tentacles with his remaining arm as he retreated to shore. Once there, he dropped Sam and stood on his cape to prevent him from returning to the attack. Then he sheathed his sword and drew his bow. He fitted an arrow and took aim at the three sets of pitiless black eyes.  
  
Four of the eyes disappeared almost instantly, victims of his deadly accuracy, but the last two were blocked by Boromir and Strider, who were hacking mercilessly at the endless stream of slimy tendrils. The water was black with the creature's blood, but still it fought with a fierce vitality. Gimli was viciously chopping at the monster with his axe, his face contorted with fury. He was no doubt thinking of his fallen kinsmen.  
  
Overhead, Frodo was still dangling precariously over the creature's slowly opening mouth. His terrified screams had reached a hysterical pitch. If they didn't reach him soon, it would be too late.  
  
Both Legolas and Elrond aimed for the tentacle that held him, and both struck home. The creature screeched and dropped Frodo, who bounced off its smooth head and into Strider's waiting arms.  
  
"To the cave," roared Boromir as they scrambled to shore.  
  
The fellowship retreated into the cave, the two elves firing parting shots as they went. The creature tried to pursue them, heaving its massive bulk onto the shore and scuttling after them on its remaining tentacles. Now it looked like a malformed crab. It was deceptively fast and would have reached them were it not for its size. It was too large to fit inside the cave, and it became lodged in the opening. It squealed in frustration and struggled harder, but it remained stuck. Its struggles set off an avalanche of stones that showered down over the open with crackling roar. The sound was immense, and it made Elrond feel like a marble being rattled around in a tin can. When the dust settled, it was clear there was no way out.  
  
"Now we have but one choice," said Gandalf in soft resignation.  
  
As they set off through the suffocating, eager darkness, Elrond felt the weight of two  
  
intense gray eyes settle on his shoulders. He thought he would go mad. 


	16. Keepers of Moria

Legolas plodded through the monotonous darkness. They had been traversing the mines for four days, and he was covered in a thin brown film of dust. His lungs suffered from the dirty air, and he coughed frequently, but he was aware of none of these things. He was only aware of the wine-cloaked figure a few yards in front of him. Elrond. No force in heaven or earth that should've driven him Rivendell, and yet, here he was, shambling through these endless tunnels with the rest of them. He wanted to know why.  
  
He was convinced Elrond had been lying when he said all was well. He had seen it in his eyes. He could meet his gaze when he'd asked about Saryn. What harm could possibly have befallen her in Mirkwood? There was no evil there. Yes, his father hated her, but he wouldn't dare harm her for fear of his wrath. Would he? Surely not. His mother would protect her.  
  
Then a new thought occurred to him, one more horrible than the first. Suppose orcs had attacked Mirkwood? It had never happened before, but anything was possible in these times. If that were so, wouldn't Elrond be there tending to the wounded? Maybe he already had been. That would explain why he looked so haggard, so drained.  
  
What would you do, Legolas, if you came home to find everything you've been fighting for destroyed? If you found sweet Saryn in pieces? You know what the orcs do elves, especially beautiful elven woman. How would you feel if you came home to find the lips that kiss you so softly in shreds on the threshold? The eyes that melt your heart cast upon the bed? The arms and hands that caressed and massaged away your cares and worries strewn over the kitchen table, or maybe sizzling on the breakfast fire? The heart that loved you so faithfully bobbing in the teakettle? Maybe the womb that longed to bear you children draped over the rafters like party streamers? Perhaps Elrond has seen all these things, and for that, he cannot meet your gaze.  
  
The bloody images in his head made him feel sick. He steadied himself against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. This couldn't go on. He had to know. "King Elrond," he called, the words resonating in the dark cavern, "where is my wife?"  
  
All motion ceased, and Gandalf adjusted the level of light flooding from the crystal perched atop his walking staff. He sensed that the outcome of this conversation would have important consequences for all of them. The others must have sensed it too, for they all stood watching expectantly. He noted with some irritation that Boromir was observing the proceedings with a peculiar my-isn't-this-interesting expression on his face. All he lacks is a goblet of ale in one hand and a leg of lamb in the other, he thought. He snorted in contempt.  
  
Elrond turned to face his nephew. He suddenly felt very old. "I believe we have already discussed this matter," he said wearily.  
  
"It has not been resolved to my satisfaction," he shot back.  
  
"I have but one answer to give you, and it remains unchanged. I do not know."  
  
"Deceit does not become you, sir," scoffed the younger elf.  
  
"Your impudence tries my patience," he said, trying to sound angry. He only succeeded in sounding beaten.  
  
"My impudence or my persistence?" he countered.  
  
"Enough," he barked, mustering the last of his energy. "I will waste no more time with your baseless accusations."  
  
"If they be baseless, why can you not look upon my face?" he responded in a strained, uneven voice.  
  
Looking at Legolas' pale, exhausted face, Gandalf suddenly realized how frightened he was. He'd had four long, dreary days to conjure up untold numbers of horrifying scenarios. Heaven only knew what sort of terrors his mind held in regards to his wife. Gandalf was disgusted with himself. He should've dealt with him sooner.  
  
"Legolas," he soothed, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, "calm yourself. If King Elrond says he knows nothing, then we may be certain it is the truth. I have known him for five thousand years, and he has never given me reason to doubt him."  
  
"All liars must begin somewhere," Legolas said, but his voice had steadied.  
  
"You speak the truth, my young friend," conceded Gandalf with a twinkle in his eye, "but he has not started here. Have you forgotten that I am a powerful wizard? If something so terrible as the visions you have seen in your mind's eye had taken place, surely one of my many friends would have come with the news by now. Take heart, young master."  
  
"Yes…yes, you're right, wise Gandalf," he said, relief flooding his face. To Elrond he said, "Forgive me, sire. I have insulted your good name without cause. I pray you will excuse my behavior." He bowed at the waist and moved forward again.  
  
Gandalf saw the look of relief wash over the Legolas' face and felt a pang of self-loathing that he quickly smothered. Yes, it was cruel to deceive the boy so, but he had no choice. In order to safely deliver the vile Ring into the bowels of Mount Doom, they would need his quick bow and keen reflexes. They would have neither if he was prostrate with grief. There would be time enough for that in Lothlorien. At least there they could hope to recruit a replacement. Until then, he would have to be kept in the dark.  
  
For his part, Elrond was feeling even worse than Gandalf for their conscious deceit of Legolas. Boromir was looking at him in a conspiratorial fashion he didn't quite like. One liar knows another, taunted the voice in his head with a brittle laugh. Tell me, sire, which one of you will he kill first when he learns of your deception? He will, you know; he'll have nothing left to lose. I'd bet on the old wizard myself. That way there'll be no magic spells to worry about while he's skewering you like a boar on the end of a spear. Will you scream as you meet your ignoble end? With the two of you gone, Boromir will have little trouble laying his hands on the ring and delivering all of Middle Earth to its doom. Yet another wise decision by the great King Elrond.  
  
"Shut up, shut up, damn you!" he hissed, squeezing his temples.  
  
"Are you alright, sire?" asked Strider, surveying him with calculating hazel eyes.  
  
"Oh, oh yes, Aragorn," answered Elrond, looking up quickly. He was ashamed to have been caught in a moment of vulnerability.  
  
"If I may say so, sir, you do not look well."  
  
Aragorn thought the king looked awful, in fact. There were dark blotches under his eyes, and his cheeks were alarmingly hollow. He shuffled rather than stepped when he walked, and his hands always steady, now trembled constantly. Now he had begun talking to himself. Clearly he was not a well man. He wondered would could have wrought such a drastic transformation in so short a time. Whatever had reduced this stalwart king to a nervous, haunted, irascible wreck must be powerful indeed.  
  
"Does the Ring prey on your mind, sir?" he probed gently.  
  
Elrond tittered and ran a shaking hand through his disheveled hair. "The Ring? Of course. The Ring and all my sins. Each and every one of them."  
  
Aragorn prodded further, but the king would say no more, only fixed his eyes straight ahead and trudged through the interminable corridor. He stopped only when the group stopped to rest in an enormous stone vestibule surrounded by a myriad of offshoots.  
  
"I think I should take some to reflect on our course, as I do not remember this place," Gandalf announced, looking around him at the unfamiliar surroundings.  
  
Boromir muttered something unintelligible under his breath and sought out a dark corner. No doubt he was questioning his judgment, but Gandalf didn't care. He had his sights set upon the smooth slab of rock situated above the group. From there, he would be able to observe the group as a whole without being disturbed.  
  
Once ensconced atop the gray slab, he peered out over the group. The view was better than he had imagined it would be. He could see Legolas sitting cross-legged against the wall, twirling a small silver object between his fingers. It was too small to make out from here, but judging from the dreamy expression etched on his face, it had something to do with Saryn. Boromir was brooding in the corner, jabbing the point of his sword into the dirt. Merry, Pippin, and Sam were rounding up what kindling they could to start a fire. He chuckled. No matter how often they ate, the little hobbits never tired of food. The fourth and most special of all the hobbits, Frodo, was standing a little way off from the rest, his large blue eyes lifted to where he now sat. The Ring he wore around his pale neck twinkled faintly in the dim light. From the look on his face, he'd soon be up to discuss something with him. He sighed. Let him come then. He enjoyed the little fellow's company. He turned his faded blue eyes to Strider, who was leaning against the wall, aloof, guarded eyes watching the last member of their entourage. Elrond.  
  
Gandalf frowned as he gazed down upon the huddled, pitiful figure of the elven king as he watched his nephew warily, barely concealed guilt imprinted on his face. Saryn's probable death had affected him immensely, more than it should have, but why? What was it he had said? I have killed my own with my arrogance. What did he mean? He was an able general and had seen numberless elves fall in battle, so it was not her mere race that set her loss apart. Could it be because she was family? He supposed so, but even then, this reaction was a bit extreme. Thranduil was not his blood brother, after all. What then? Why would her loss so unseat his mind? Some thought niggled at the back of his mind, an ancient rumor of long ago, but before it could coalesce in his mind, there was a small tap on his knee, and the memory flitted away.  
  
"I had a feeling you would be coming to see me, Frodo," said Gandalf without looking down. "What troubles you?"  
  
"You lied to Legolas," answered the hobbit without preamble, hopping up onto the stone.  
  
"Yes." No use denying it with Frodo.  
  
"Why?" Frodo's eyes were incredulous.  
  
"Sometimes lies are kinder," was the only thing he could think of to say.  
  
"Was it because of the Ring, what happened to her?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," came the answer.  
  
"I hate it! I wish the Ring had never come to me," Frodo burst out, enraged that the Ring he carried had brought misery to another of his friends.  
  
"So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide," said Gandalf kindly. "We must decide what to do with the time we are given."  
  
Frodo opened his mouth to speak, but the wizard interrupted him. "Ah, it's this way," he cried, pointing to a passage on the far left.  
  
"Did you remember the way?" asked Sam as the group clambered up the crumbling steps and followed Gandalf into the passage.  
  
"No, the air is less foul this way," he said. "When in doubt, follow your nose."  
  
They had only gone a few hundred yards when Legolas heard a sharp intake of breath followed by an agonized cry. It was coming from Gimli.  
  
"Noooo!" wailed the dwarf, he eyes fixed on the doorway in front of him. Before anyone could stop him, he took off for the doorway, stubby legs running as fast as they could.  
  
When they caught up with him, he was kneeling before a white sarcophagus and rocking to and fro, strange gurgling noises coming from his wattled throat. After a moment, Legolas realized he was crying. Great watery tears were cascading down his leathery cheeks, and for the first time, Legolas saw him as something more than an odious little dwarf. He saw him as a fellow creature who had lost a huge chunk of his family in one fell swoop. In a wave of empathy, he imagined what it would be like to return to Mirkwood to find the entire village slaughtered. A cold clamminess enveloped him, and he shook it off. He squeezed Gimli's shoulder and moved away, feeling hopelessly inadequate.  
  
"Here lies Balin, lord of Moria," he read, tracing his hand over the intricate inscription carved into the stone. "So he is dead then."  
  
This pronouncement only served to heighten Gimli's grief. He began rocking harder and faster, beating his helmeted head against the cool granite. Legolas doubted this was doing much to assuage his grief and might even be alerting enemies to their presence. He was about to tell him to stop when he heard a thin rustling behind him.  
  
He turned to find Gandalf prying a dusty, cobweb-covered book from the fragile fingers of one of the skeletons slumped in the corner. It was a gigantic volume filled with thousands of brittle, yellow pages that sent up a cloud of dust as they were turned.  
  
"They have taken the north hall and the south hall," he read. "We have barred the gates, but it will not hold them for long. They are coming…they are coming."  
  
Gandalf closed the book with a dusty snap. Everyone regarded each other uneasily. It did not seem a pleasant way to die. Pippin was too uneasy, it turned out, because he backed into a moldering skeleton perched atop a cistern, setting in motion events that would nearly kill them all. The armor-clad skeleton toppled backward down the ruined, dry well, its rusted helmet ringing and clanging merrily as it went. The rotten wooden bucket followed it, bouncing crazily off the powdery stone walls.  
  
There was a moment of stupefied silence, and then Gandalf exploded. "Fool of a Took! Next time throw yourself in and rid us all of your stupidity."  
  
Pippin never got a chance to stammer out an apology. Before the echoes of the tumbling armor had faded, the daunting throb of orc drums filled the air. The men and Legolas sprang into action. Boromir scurried to the great oak doors they had passed through and peered cautiously around the corner. He was rewarded with the sight of two orc arrows whizzing past his nose for his trouble. He jerked his head back inside like a turtle retreating into its shell.  
  
"They have a cave troll," he glibly announced, putting his shoulder to the door and pushing with all his might.  
  
"Splendid," said Strider flatly, coming to his aid.  
  
Legolas and Elrond joined in while Gandalf tossed them axes with which to barricade the door. When they had done all they could, the men and elves backed up, drew their weapons, and waited. Legolas stood with his bow drawn taut, adrenaline pounding in his temples. He could feel tiny beads of sweat trickling down his armpits. His mouth had gone desert-dry. On his left, he could see Elrond calmly waiting in much the same stance. A fine sheen of sweat dampened his forehead. On his right stood Boromir, whose complexion had assumed the cheesy green hue it always did when a battle was imminent. Don't think he cares much for battles, he thought. Only Strider appeared unconcerned, standing almost jauntily with his bow pointed at the door.  
  
There was a gabbling, shambling sound, and then the door bulged inward, the ancient wood creaking beneath the strain. Now gravelly orc voices could be heard as they grunted and simpered at one another in preparation for a second assault upon the door.  
  
"Let them come," trumpeted Gimli, "there is yet one dwarf in Moria that draws breath!" He hefted his battle-axe onto his shoulder and narrowed his eyes.  
  
Legolas duly noted that he issued his brave challenge while sheltered behind four of the best archers and swordsmen in all of Middle Earth and returned his attention to the door in front of him. There was a second jarring thud, and the beleaguered door began to splinter, momentary glimpses of mottled orc flesh becoming visible. His fingers tightened on his bowstring, tingling with electricity.  
  
A beady eyeball appeared in the ragged hole in the door, and he loosed his arrow with a sharp twang. There was a garbled shriek of agony and the eye disappeared, but so did the door as several dozen orcs trampled down the last vestiges of the barrier between them and their quarry. They cawed in triumph as they flung themselves at their hated foes, their large, cloudy green eyes blazing in malicious glee.  
  
He met them head on, trading his bow for his blade when they drew too near. He danced nimbly away from their clumsy sword strokes, blonde hair swirling around him as he spun and lunged. He swelled with satisfaction each time his blade struck home in the repugnant flesh of an orc, knowing that each orc he felled would mean there was one fewer left to terrorize Middle Earth. Their thick, gelid blood coated his blade, and he hummed as he fought, exhilarated.  
  
He flicked his eyes to the left and was relieved to see that the frightened haunted look in his uncle's eyes had disappeared. Invigorated by combat, Elrond's eyes were radiating life and vitality, flashing each time he claimed another foe. Incredibly, he was grinning. On his right, Boromir was doggedly impaling orc with his blade. He looked queasier than ever. Gimli, to his credit, was living up to his boast, wielding his axe with a dexterity that surprised him. Even the hobbits were doing their part, tiny swords flying as they gamely waged war against the much bigger orcs. Only Frodo did not fight, preferring the meager shelter of the pedestal in the center of the room.  
  
Further assessment of the battle was hampered by an ear-splitting howl as the cave troll Boromir had mentioned made his grand entrance. He looked up at the towering creature in dreadful awe. It was monstrous, nearly thirty feet tall and covered in smooth gray skin like an eel. In its huge, muscled hand it held a club the size of a sequoia tree. A club he now saw with some alarm, that was swinging at his head. He ducked, and the weapon passed over his head with a deadly whistle and crashed into the thick stone wall, sending down a shower of jagged rock.  
  
He rolled right and saw that the troll was clutching a thick length of chain in its other meaty hand. The chain lashed out and sank into his calf, tripping him. The troll, pleased with itself, grunted happily and started to pull him forward. He was saved by an unlikely hero. Merry ran up behind the beast and jabbed it in the hindquarters with his sword.  
  
"Bugger off," he sniffed indignantly.  
  
The troll, registering the pain in its tiny, dim brain, turned to locate its source. Merry, only now realizing what he had done, beat a hasty retreat behind Gandalf, but his distraction had given Legolas the time he needed. He scrambled to his feet and shot two arrows into the creature's broad back. He had an idea. Come on, you slow-witted brute, he thought fiercely, turn around.  
  
The troll stood befuddled in the center of the room. It was deciding what to do next, tiny eyes squinched in concentration. Legolas helped it along, placing an arrow in its shoulder. The ground shuddered as it turned around to fix its glazed eyes on the insignificant insect that was troubling it so. As Legolas had hoped, the murderous chain shot out again, aimed at his face. He avoided it, feinting right at the last moment. When the second blow came, he was ready. He stepped on the chain as it crashed down beside him and wrapped his hands around its girth. When the troll pulled it back to itself, he went with it, landing on the creature's back with a jarring whump.  
  
Being on a troll's back was a rather unpleasant affair for the elven prince. It smelled a great deal like unwashed dwarf, and the agitated troll was swiping blindly at him with his hands. He flinched away from an oncoming blow and planted his feet as he fitted another arrow into his bow. From his swaying perch, he could see the other members of the fellowship waging war against the few remaining orcs. Decapitated, shuddering corpses lay strewn about the room. Elrond was watching him, his brow knitted in concern.  
  
He took a deep breath and shot the arrow into the troll's skull at point blank range. It did not have the effect he had expected. The troll did not lie down decently dead, but rather redoubled its efforts to shake him off. It whipped its shoulders back and forth, bellowing in frustration. He wobbled and stutterstepped, trying to maintain his balance, but it was no use. He tumbled from the beast's back and landed with a loud thud on the floor below.  
  
He couldn't breathe. Someone was crushing his chest. Oh, Elbereth, the pain was huge. He tried to scream, but there was no air. The only sound he could manage was a barely audible moan. He whipped his head from side to side, trying to jumpstart his breathing, but the air remain lodged in his throat like a lump of cold pork fat. Black spots were dancing before his eyes. He was choking to death.  
  
Suddenly a bright pain exploded in his face, and the lump in his throat dissipated. He sucked in greedy lungfuls of warm air, grateful that he had not perished on this filthy floor. He hardly paid attention to the voice buzzing in his ear. He was content to lie on the cool stone floor and breathe.  
  
The voice belonged to King Elrond. "Draw breath, boy," he commanded, rubbing his still-stinging hand on his leg. He had slapped him a bit harder than he had intended, but the prince had been a terrifying deep plum color. The fall had driven the wind out of him, and the momentary shock of the pain had made his muscles rigid. He'd nearly suffocated himself. He was about to help the still-gasping Legolas to his feet when a sharp, pained cry from behind him made him whirl about.  
  
The cave troll was crowing victoriously as it drove a nearby spear deeper into its quarry. For a moment, Elrond wasn't sure what had happened, and then he saw Frodo's wide, agonized eyes over the troll's shoulder. Lords of Elbereth, it got him. We have failed, he thought. The little hobbit grunted and toppled facedown on the concrete.  
  
The effect on the rest of the company was immediate. Sam, Frodo's faithful companion, cried out, crawling to his friend's side. Merry and Pippin, who had been watching the fracas from a recess high above, leaped onto the creature's brawny shoulders, screaming vengefully. Their feeble blows did little to hurt the troll. It only shook its head as if trying to rid itself of fleas, but perhaps they could distract it until Strider and Boromir arrived.  
  
The two in question came scurrying to the troll's feet, Boromir wearing a highly offended expression. They jabbed and slashed at the behemoth, but their skillful strokes could do nothing to injure it. It stamped its mighty feet and leered at them, daring them to do their worst. Will nothing stop this evil progeny from slaughtering us all? the king thought bitterly.  
  
Legolas was quick to answer his question. He staggered unsteadily to his feet, weaving a little as he fought to recover his equilibrium. He reached into his quiver of rapidly dwindling arrows and fitted one into his bow. His vision swam, and he saw first double, then triple. His head ached ferociously, and he heard whistling and bells inside his skull. He thought he might vomit. He forced his humming brain to concentrate, forced it to focus blurry eyes and align his quivering hands. Please Elbereth, he thought.  
  
The troll's eyes bulged comically as the arrow embedded itself in its throat. It stood motionless for a moment, then clutched a hand to its neck. Loud, guttural gargling sounds came out of its mouth. It lumbered into the center of the room, the hand that wasn't wrapped around its throat stretched out in front of it. It coughed, spraying out a thick mist of green blood. Then it pirouetted and collapsed in a heap, its giant head landing inches from Gandalf's feet.  
  
With the troll finally dead, Strider hurried to where the inert form of Frodo lay sprawled beside the ruins of Balin's coffin.  
  
"Is he?" asked Gandalf. He didn't need to finish the sentence.  
  
Strider reached out and gingerly tugged on Frodo's shoulder, expecting to find lifeless dead weight. He was rewarded, however, with a thick groan as Frodo rolled onto his back.  
  
"I'm alright," croaked Frodo, raising himself onto one elbow.  
  
"That spear would've killed a wild boar. You should be dead," marveled Strider.  
  
"I think there is more to this than meets the eye," said Gandalf, amused.  
  
He was right. Frodo unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a shimmering vest of snowy white mithril. Mithril was the hardest substance in all of Middle Earth, a magical creation of the elves. From time immemorial, it had protected generations of elven nobility. Both Legolas and King Elrond had worn it at the Battle of the Five Armies, and now it had saved the life of this diminutive hobbit.  
  
"You are a truly remarkable hobbit, Frodo Baggins," laughed Gandalf, leaning on his staff.  
  
"Yes, well, I hate to interrupt this celebration, but perhaps we should make haste before more orcs arrive," suggested Boromir, casting nervous glances over his shoulder.  
  
"Right you are," agreed Gandalf.  
  
They left Balin's tomb at a dead run, hoping to reach the bridge of Khazad-dum before any orcs caught up with them. Legolas, still woozy from his fall, fell behind. His sharp eyes saw things the others, save King Elrond, could not. Only their eyes could see that the dark mine walls were pulsing with orcs. Millions of them. He put on a burst of speed and hoped his aching head did not betray him. If he tripped now, nothing could save him.  
  
He could hear the orcs swallowing the path behind him. The path in front was quickly closed off by legions of orcs descending from the walls and ceiling. They were quickly surrounded. They huddled together, back to back, watching helplessly as the hideous, bug-eyed orcs closed in. They were gleeful, and why shouldn't they be? They were about to devour the fellowship, two of them elves.  
  
Not wanting his last thoughts to be of orcs, he fixed his mind on Saryn. His mind's eye pictured her with heartbreaking clarity. Her deep blue eyes filled his mind, and he was overwhelmed by an ache of longing so intense it made him gasp. He wished he could have held her one last time. He summoned all of his love for her and sent it toward her on one last thought. I love you so much, Saryn. I'm sorry I could not keep my promise to return to you. Forgive me. He closed his eyes and prepared to die.  
  
Boromir, who was standing next to Legolas looked at him in bewilderment. His eyes were closed, and he was making soft moaning noises as if in the throes of a fine erotic dream. A fine thing this. Here they were, about to be torn to pieces by orcs, and Legolas was indulging in a bit of amorous fancy. Of course, it wasn't such a bad way to end, he supposed. He shook himself and gave the elf a hearty smack in the arm.  
  
"Open your eyes and greet death like a warrior," he groused.  
  
Except they did not greet death. Just as the jubilant orcs were about to set upon them, the air grew still and oppressive. A sound like creaking hinges could be heard in the distance. A low, bruising vibration was felt in their bones. Apparently the orcs could feel it, too, because they gave voice to a collective cry of anguish and scattered.  
  
"What is this new devilry?" asked Boromir. Anything that terrified murderous orcs from their prey was a formidable foe indeed.  
  
"A balrog," answered Gandalf, never taking his eyes off the opening in front of them.  
  
At the mention of its name, the creature appeared. None of them had ever seen anything like it. It loomed over them, impossibly large. The troll was a pixie in comparison. Huge, diaphanous black wings hovered over them. Its eyes were round balls of molten flame set in invisible sockets, and when it opened its jaws, it revealed a tongue of red flame.  
  
"This foe is beyond any of you!" cried Gandalf. "Run!"  
  
No one needed to be told twice. Legolas sprinted toward the bridge that beckoned from afar, the stabbing pain in his head forgotten. It felt like his knees were touching his nose, but he knew this could not be. He could see his uncle in front of him, long brown hair streaming behind him. Strider had two hobbits, one under each arm, and was running as fast as a human could. Just behind him, Boromir was carrying Sam like a sack of grain and Gimli like a knapsack. Only Gandalf was behind him, and he could hear the old wizard's labored breathing.  
  
"Have courage, Gandalf, we're nearly there," he called back.  
  
Indeed, no sooner had he spoken than his feet touched upon the narrow span of the bridge. Relief flooded over him. They were safe. Yet the horrified expression on the faces of his companions told him something was terribly wrong. He spun around as soon as he reached the other side, and a brain-numbing sight greeted him.  
  
Gandalf had stopped in the middle of the bridge and turned to face their pursuer. He held his staff before him as though it could offer him protection from the hellish demon glowering down at him the way a bear observes a floundering trout just before the kill.  
  
"Go back to the flames from when you came," ordered Gandalf, pointing his staff at the balrog.  
  
The balrog, unimpressed, took another step onto the bridge. Then the fellowship watched in awe as Gandalf gripped his staff in both hands.  
  
"YOU…SHALL NOT…PASS!" he roared, and drove the staff into the bridge.  
  
There was a blinding flash of white light, and then the bridge split in two with a grinding roar. The half holding the balrog tumbled down into the abyss, taking the creature with it. But as the wizard turned to rejoin the group, a long, serpentine tendril of flame shot out of the darkness and curled around his foot. The balrog intended to take its conqueror with it. It jerked Gandalf to the edge of the fractured bridge and disappeared out of sight.  
  
"NO!" shrieked Frodo. He tried to run out onto the bridge, but could not extricate himself from Strider's iron grasp.  
  
Gandalf struggled to pull himself onto the bridge, but he was too drained from his confrontation with the balrog. He could feel his tenuous grip beginning to fade.  
  
"Fly, you fools!" he ordered.  
  
King Elrond flew, alright, but not in the direction Gandalf had intended. He leaped onto the shaking bridge and hurried to the exhausted mage. He had made too many mistakes already in this life. He would not make this one.  
  
"What are you doing, fool? Flee while you can," ordered Gandalf.  
  
"Why are you in such a hurry to die?" asked Elrond, grabbing him by his dusty robe and dragging him to safety.  
  
The old man was still too weak to walk, so the king carried him across the bridge. The ground beneath his feet was growing more unstable by the second. It could collapse at any moment.  
  
"Legolas, help me," Elrond said, lifting the trembling Gandalf toward his nephew.  
  
Legolas laid on his stomach and reached over the ledge to grasp the semi-conscious wizard. When he was safe, he reached out to his uncle and pulled him up just as the remains of the bridge disintegrated beneath him. They left Moria without looking back. 


	17. Basylis

While her husband was being introduced to the terrors of Moria, Saryn and Telvryn were waging their own desperate battle against hunger and thirst. The food had run out two days ago; the water was gone by yesterday morning. Only their stubborn, strong elvish wills had kept them going.  
  
Telvryn was particularly worried about Saryn. Though she hadn't whispered a word of complaint, she was clearly deteriorating. Her formerly round face was now gaunt and wan. Her cheekbones stood in sharp relief against her pasty skin. Her hair, once as bright as the sun, was now dull and brittle. Worst of all, she was still limping badly. The swelling from her badly sprained knee and ankle was finally beginning to go down, but it was obvious that the injury would not heal completely until she received some badly needed Elvish medicine.  
  
"Come Saryn, let us rest on this hummock while we can," he urged, pointing out the lumpy hillock rising out of the water.  
  
"For what purpose?" she replied in a listless, disinterested voice. "We have neither food nor water, and if we do not escape this place by nightfall, we shall never do so."  
  
He knew she was right. Both of them were growing steadily weaker, and their unwilling companion was delirious with fever. The bog water had seeped into his cuts, and within thirty-six hours, a raging infection had developed, his face swelling to twice its normal size. Two days ago, thick yellow pus erupted from his numerous cuts, coating his fevered, bloated face with a cool slime. Saryn had been caring for him until this morning, now too weak to even mop his brow. Nonetheless, he knew she could not continue like this.  
  
Making a quick decision, he scooped her into his arms. She slapped ineffectually at his shoulders.  
  
"Put me down," she whined.  
  
"Absolutely not," he said. "You are too exhausted to walk on your own anymore; if you will not consent for your own sake, then do it for the sake of your unborn."  
  
"But what if we should encounter another serpent?" she asked idly. She was too tired to put up more than a perfunctory fight.  
  
"Then you shall quickly discover whether or not the bottom of this bog makes a suitable chair. Now stop worrying and rest yourself," he chided.  
  
She dropped her head against his chest and was soon in a deep sleep. It was an excruciatingly exquisite sensation for Telvryn. For many days now, he had dreamed of holding her in his arms, albeit under much different circumstances. He shivered as he felt her soft breast rise and fall against his chest in time with her gentle breathing. He wondered what it would be like to caress those silky mounds with aching fingers, to lower his hot, eager mouth to her tiny rose nipples. He imagined the delicious feeling of slipping insider her satin folds and taking his pleasure from the tight sheath between her legs. He was panting with desire.  
  
You could have that which you crave, said a soft, wheedling voice inside his head. She is weak, and there is no one here to see the deed. That which is not seen, is not done. Easy it would be to deceive her. Mayhap she would think you Legolas, for you rather resemble him. Take what you will. The bog will keep your secret.  
  
His mind cringed in revulsion in horror at these barbarous thoughts, even as his body responded with a surge of lust so powerful it hurt. She could never be his, and he knew it, but he wanted her so badly. He wanted her to love and desire him the way he was growing to love and desire her. He wanted his name to be ever on her moist coral lips and emblazoned across her heart like brand. But it could not be, for her heart was already claimed by another, a prince no less. She would never return his love.  
  
Oblivious to the torment raging above her, Saryn hovered between sleep and unconsciousness as her agonized body struggled to sustain the tiny life inside it. Calcium was leached from her bones and protein robbed from her muscles. Her heart pumped twice as fast in an effort to supply what grew within her with enough blood and oxygen. Already, there were four pinprick eyes and the delicate beginnings of four tiny, pointed ears. Not one, but two children slept in her womb.  
  
She dreamed, but her dreams were distant and vague, filled with shadows and uneasiness. She thrashed and called out, then calmed again. Then suddenly there was a voice wrapped in the scent of wild strawberries. Legolas, she called in her mind.  
  
What I wouldn't give to hold you in my arms one last time, the voice said. It was heartbroken, mournful. I'm sorry I could not keep my promise to return to you. Forgive me, my love. Then both the voice and the intoxicating, beloved smell retreated down the foggy corridors of her sleep- deprived mind. She awoke with a jolt.  
  
"Legolas! Legolas!" she screamed, clawing and thrashing in Telvryn's arms like an unruly cat being forced into a tub of water.  
  
Telvryn was so startled by this unexpected outburst that he dropped her into the bog. She hardly felt it. She scrambled to her feet as soon as she hit the ground. The pain in her leg, which had throbbed like a rotten tooth for four days, was now a distant memory. She looked at him with wild, desperate eyes.  
  
"What has possessed you, woman?" asked Telvryn, worried that her mind had finally snapped under the strain of the journey.  
  
"Legolas has called to me! I heard his voice inside my head, and he is in mortal danger! We must fly to him at once!" She spoke so quickly that the words tumbled and slurred over one another. She was dancing about in the water, her eyes glowing with urgency.  
  
"What?" he asked, thoroughly confounded. "I do not understand. Calm yourself before you do us both more harm. Sit down and explain all."  
  
She did not sit down. She could not. It was as if she had been plugged into an energy current. Her veins thrummed and crackled with a strange vitality. "I cannot," she nearly moaned.  
  
"Are you sure it was he?"  
  
"Of course I am certain," she barked. I know his voice and his scent better than I know my own name." She was stamping her feet in the knee- high water like an impatient stallion.  
  
"Alright, alright, peace," he soothed, holding up his hands, "but even if it was, we shall reach him no sooner."  
  
"Yes we shall. I will not rest until we have crossed beyond this terrible place, do you hear?"  
  
"What of me and Cerek? We cannot go at the pace you intend."  
  
"I would leave you both behind if I could but reach him faster," she spat. Realization of what she had said dawned on her face, and she let out a miserable groan. "No, no I would not. Forgive me, for I know not of what I speak."  
  
He looked at her speculatively for a moment before he answered. "I know," he said at last, enfolding her in a soft hug. "All is forgiven. Do not trouble yourself."  
  
She smiled gratefully at him, an image he would forever hold in his heart, then knelt down beside Cerek. "How long will he last?" she asked fretfully, dabbing at his pus-coated face with the hem of her gown.  
  
"A day, maybe two," he said softly, turning his head away. He felt responsible for the young elf's suffering. He had, after all, caused the cuts upon his face. "I could give him a merciful death."  
  
"Never!" she retorted, horrified. "Where there is life, there is hope."  
  
She fussed over the groaning elf, wiping clumps of sweat-laden, pus- clotted hair from his burning face. His rheumy, red eyes looked at her with no recognition. His purple lips were cracked and blistered. The pus had changed from a bright yellow to a filmy green, another sign that he was not long for this world. She splashed cool bog water on his boiling forehead, knowing it was unwise but wanting his last hours to be comfortable.  
  
"He is dying," she said. "Nothing can stop that now, but I will not let one of my people die in this vile place. Come. We must hurry."  
  
She grabbed the frayed leather strap and pulled Cerek behind her, moving through the water at a breakneck pace. She wasn't sure where this sudden burst of energy had come from, but she intended to put it to good use. Her eyes, once blurred by exhaustion, were sharp and crisp. Her legs were light and free. Maybe when Legolas had reached out to her, she had tapped into his boundless vitality. Whatever the case, she was flying.  
  
They had gone three miles, when she stopped in her tracks. Something was different here. The air crackled with a foreboding power. The hair on the nape of her neck prickled in anticipation. Whatever guards the bog, it's here, she thought as she spun around in a slow circle.  
  
"We should not be here," Telvryn said slowly. "There is something evil here. We should leave."  
  
"And go where? Before us lies a dead end, and behind us there is only death."  
  
She was right. The path in front of them was choked with flabby tubers, thorns, and diseased mangroves. It was a dead end. Whatever the guardian of the bog was, it intended to meet them here. She scanned the flat water but saw nothing; yet the odd power swirling in the air had intensified.  
  
There was a soft hiss like the rustling of dry leaves from behind them, and she knew before she turned around what she would find. Basylis, the great horned cobra, was looming over them, his eyeless sockets pointed at them. His rancid, forked tongue flickered out to taste the air. The beast was even more frightening than Telvryn had described. Fifty feet of spongy gray bone sparsely covered by slimy, festering patches of black skin. Boils erupted from his back and maggots crawled sluggishly around his empty black eye sockets. She could see bits of putrid brains clinging to the inside of the skull.  
  
Saryn did something she had not done in many a year. She opened her mouth and screamed in abject terror, a bone-chilling, ululating howl that went on and on. Telvryn must have shared her feelings, because he joined her, their screams reverberating through the swamp. The colossal serpent never moved; it simply looked at them. Even without eyes, it seemed to be enjoying the spectacle.  
  
When the screams died away, the trio regarded each other in silence. Cerek was drooling incoherently on his raft. For one giddy moment, Saryn thought the giant snake would not attack. Then the reeking, scabarous remnants of his hood flapped outward, sending down a draft of noisome air. Its bony body tensed, and it lashed out at Saryn with terrifying speed.  
  
She threw herself sideways, and the serpent's jagged fangs narrowly missed her stomach. She scrabbled away, her heart thumping so wildly in her chest that she could feel her pulse thudding in her eardrums. Telvryn had shot several arrows at the creature, but most of them bounced of the bare bones. Those that found skin struck home with no effect. Oh Elbereth, we cannot defeat that which Death himself cannot conquer, she thought.  
  
Give him what he wants, said a gentle voice she had never heard before. It seemed to be coming from inside and outside of her head at the same time.  
  
I don't understand, she thought.  
  
Give him what he wants, the voice repeated.  
  
I don't know what he wants.  
  
Yes you do. He wants what you want.  
  
To be with Legolas? She was nonplussed.  
  
No.  
  
But that is what I want.  
  
Yes. But you also desire something greater.  
  
Her mind raced as she tried desperately to decipher the cryptic message. The serpent was undulating over a weakening Telvryn.  
  
Why do you want to be with Legolas? the voice asked patiently.  
  
Because he is my husband, and when I am with him there is no fear.  
  
So you want the fear to end?  
  
Yes! I want the fear to end. I want the whole nightmare to end.  
  
So it is with Basylis.  
  
But-she began, but then she stopped. She didn't need to ask that question anymore. She understood. She understood everything.  
  
There was a thud followed by a wet snap, and Telvryn sailed through the air to land a few feet to her right. His left arm was twisted at an impossible angle, broken in two places. He writhed in agony for an instant before going still, overcome with the pain. She was alone.  
  
"I can give you what you most crave, Lord Basylis," she called.  
  
The great snake stopped its advance and fixed her with its sightless eyes. "How could such a whelp of an elf know of that which I desire?" he scoffed, and made to strike.  
  
"You wish to be free of this miserable place. I can grant you that wish."  
  
"You? How?" His demeanor was still truculent, but she could hear a note of sullen eagerness in his voice.  
  
"Come closer, Lord Basylis, and I will show you."  
  
The bony head of the beast drew lower and lower until she was gazing into the pits of its eyes. So close, the stench of decay threatened to overwhelm her. She bit her cheek to suppress her rising gorge.  
  
"Well?" demanded the snake. "How will you set me free?"  
  
"Like this," she said, and jammed her sword into the remnants of his brain.  
  
The snake shuddered, its mouth opening in a soundless scream. It flopped onto its side with a watery squelch. It convulsed, splattering her with flecks of skin and water. Then it grew still. The massive head lolled in her direction.  
  
"Thank you," he said, and then he was gone.  
  
She sank to her knees, all her strength sapped. When she was certain she could make it, she crawled over to where Telvryn lay. He looked terrible. He was deathly pale, and his eyes were fluttering rapidly.  
  
"Telvryn, get up," she urged. "Get up. I cannot carry you."  
  
He groaned and opened his eyes. The pain in his arm exploded again, and he stifled a scream. "What happened?" he asked through gritted teeth.  
  
"Basylis is dead. Hurry, we must leave before the opening closes again."  
  
She crawled dispiritedly toward the aforementioned opening, a three- foot sliver of light that had appeared immediately upon the great serpent's death. She could hear Telvryn groaning and weeping as he dragged Cerek along, his broken bones grinding together with every step. She forced herself to focus on the ever-nearing doorway to freedom, hyperventilating with desperation. She was unaware that she was chanting her husband's name as she moved, a sacred mantra against the oblivion that threatened to snatch their victory from her hands.  
  
Three feet. Elbereth, everything hurt.  
  
Two feet. Please. Please.  
  
One foot. Just a little more.  
  
Something around her neck snagged on the thorns surrounding the path. She wrenched and pawed at her neck until the resistance was gone, then staggered to her feet.  
  
The group lurched onward for another half-mile before collapsing one by one within a few feet of one another. Unbeknownst to them, they had veered east instead of continuing south, a mistake that would save their lives.  
  
Back in the dense underbrush, a silver pendant glittered in the light of the rising moon. 


	18. Reunions and Divisions

An hour after their harrowing escape from Moria, the fellowship straggled along toward Lothlorien. Gandalf, though still weary, had recovered enough to walk on his own, much to Elrond's relief. If he'd had to support the wizard much longer, his own strength would have failed him.  
  
"Thank you for saving my life, old friend," said Gandalf, leaning heavily on his staff. He was still weaker than he would have liked.  
  
"There is no need to thank me. It is nothing against the sins I have committed," answered the elf, studying the ground as he walked, hands clasped behind his back.  
  
"Ah yes," murmured Gandalf, "more of these mysterious sins. Often have you made mention of them, yet none can I recall. Pray, can you refresh my faded memory?"  
  
Elrond's head snapped up, and his eyes hardened. "My sins, like my children, are my own and do not concern you. Much to my shame, you know of one already." He chanced a brief glance at Legolas, who was a little ways ahead in companionable silence with Frodo.  
  
"The time for confessions, draws near, I fear," said Gandalf, following his gaze.  
  
"Yes," said the king in a voice so unlike his own that Gandalf looked at him sharply.  
  
"When do you intend to tell him, then?"  
  
"We will reach the fabled exit to the Bog of Basylis in little more than an hour; if by then there is no sign of them, then our cleverly concealed truth must come to light." Elrond's voice was soft and distant, as though he were pondering other matters.  
  
He was, actually, though his thoughts had not strayed far. He was considering the matter of confessions. Confessions. Even the word sounded accusatory to his ears. So like its close companion, consequences. He had been trapped between the two for far too long. Pushed by one and pulled by the other, the merciless pair had conspired to squeeze all joy and love from his life. Now, when he most needed his mind and heart to be free of distraction, they were threatening to undo him completely.  
  
Yes, crowed the voice inside his head, and soon they will confront you once again in the hollow, dead eyes of your niece. Have you ever wondered, Elrond, in the dark of night where no one can see your thoughts, what things could have been like if your courage had not failed you all those years ago? If your much-vaunted honor had not deserted you in your hour of greatest need? How much better your life could have been if you had simply confessed everything all those years ago. Alas, you did not; for your lapse in judgment, we shall soon behold the consequences. Tell me, oh great king, how much will be left of her? Perhaps, for once in your miserable life, the gods will take pity on you, and there will remain nothing but a bit of bone and bloody gristle. Not enough to prove that you have sent two generations of innocent elves into the eternal abyss, surely. You could tell another falsehood, say they be the bones of an unknown wanderer. What's one more lie? After all, the whole  
of your life is based upon them.  
  
Elrond stomped furiously along, desperately wrangling with the thoughts inside his head. He had asked himself what things could have been every waking moment of his life since that fateful decision. Every breath he took, the idea of what might have come to pass haunted him. And now the voice in his head would give him no peace.  
  
Up ahead, Legolas was enjoying a rare moment of contentment. He hummed as he walked, enjoying the cool air on his face. He rolled his silver joining pendant between his fingers and the palm of his hand, taking comfort in its familiarity. It was imbued with the essence of his wife; just as the one Saryn wore around her slender neck was blessed with a part of him. Each had been consecrated with a drop of the lovers' blood. Holding it brought snatches of cherished memories to his mind, like their cozy bower back in Mirkwood or the dizzying smell of her lavender perfume. Even its mere memory sent a shiver of longing and anticipation up his spine. When all of this was over, he was going to take Saryn on a long retreat. It didn't matter where, so long as they could be alone. His thoughts were interrupted by a small tug on the bottom of his tunic.  
  
"Legolas," said Frodo in a timid whisper, looking up at him with his big, expressive eyes, "What is that object you cradle so lovingly in your hands?'  
  
"This? Why, this is my joining pendant. It signifies my bond with my beloved." He smiled at the thoughts the word "beloved" evoked.  
  
Frodo walked along quietly for a spell, considering. Then he said, "What is she like, your beloved?"  
  
Legolas laughed, a hearty, merry sound that simultaneously gladdened Frodo's heart and wrenched it in two, for it carried within it the knowledge of her fate. "Her name is Lady Saryn, and she is the light and song of my heart. She is the most beautiful woman in all elvendom. The sun cannot compete with the brightness of her countenance."  
  
"She sounds lovely."  
  
"Your ears tell you truly, my friend," he answered. "And what of you? Is their no fair hobbit maiden who holds your heart in the palm of her hand?"  
  
"No," he admitted, blushing.  
  
"Why not? Your face is not displeasing, and your manner is of a most agreeable sort," said Legolas.  
  
"I do not know. There are none who speak to my fancy."  
  
"Ah, well do I remember being in a similar quandary," mused the elf.  
  
"And then?" queried Frodo.  
  
"And then my eyes fell upon Saryn, and all silly notions about the invulnerability of my heart to feminine wiles evaporated like morning dew. Mark my words hobbit, love will ensnare you when you least expect it."  
  
"What are elf weddings like?" asked Frodo.  
  
"So many questions today, my friend," chortled Legolas, not displeased. "Joinings are a grand occasion in my culture. All the village is invited to a grand feast. There is an endless day of preparation for the festivities to follow. For nearly a week beforehand, the shops and bakeries are abuzz with activity. The air is redolent with the smell of spicy cakes and pies. The day before the joining ceremony, the betrothed couple must spend the day apart so that they can reflect on their future of eternity together."  
  
"When do they get to eat?" asked Frodo, entranced by the visions of endless culinary delights.  
  
Legolas laughed. "There is a night of joyous merrymaking after the joining, but first the joining must take place. Lord Elrond officiates all royal joinings in the three elven kingdoms. The betrothed pair are led to the altar over which he presides from opposite sides of the clearing, each accompanied by a relative. After bowing to the official joiner, the couple faces one another and joins hands. Thusly, connected, they avow publicly their love and loyalty to one another and swear before all to forsake all others. Then comes the most important part. A friend of the groom, called the Guardian of Virtue, steps up with the joining necklaces. In my case, it was Haldir, whose acquaintance you shall surely make. The joiner orders the couple to extend their upturned palms, which he pricks with the joining blade. Three drops of blood are dripped onto the joining necklaces, completing the sacred bond. Once the necklaces are fastened around the couple's neck, no man or beast can  
divide them."  
  
"Are all necklaces the same?"  
  
"No, Master Frodo. Each pair of necklaces is different. The design is chosen by the groom unless he chooses to defer the honor to the bride. I chose the image of the phoenix because like this noble bird, our love is reborn with the dawning of each new day."  
  
"Your joining must have been a grand affair," observed Frodo.  
  
Legolas nodded. "The grandest in a thousand years. Untold gildnar were spent in preparation. The feast alone required one hundred of the finest elven chefs to cook around the clock for three days. The laughter and merriment lasted until dawn the next day. It was the happiest day of my long life, though it should have been happier still."  
  
"What could have troubled you on so blissful a day?"  
  
"My father," sighed Legolas unhappily, "did not approve. It was only because of the forceful persuasions of my mother that the joining happened at all. My father had fixed in his mind that I should be paired with a lady more befitting of my station, a duchess name Gerlise. When he saw that it was not to be, he flew into a rage. He accused me of being seduced by the charms of a wanton harlot. Only my mother's threat to take leave of the castle changed his mind. Even so, he sulked for the duration of the feast, refusing to give the traditional blessing for prosperity and fertility. King Elrond did it in his stead, mightily vexed by my father's rudeness. Still, he did not ruin my happiness, nor Saryn's."  
  
"I'm sorry for your father," apologized Frodo.  
  
"So am I," agreed Legolas ruefully.  
  
They continued along in comfortable silence. Though Frodo seemed calm, his sweet hobbit nature was wracked with guilt. Legolas spoke so lovingly of his life with Saryn, yet Frodo knew she was probably dead. The Ring he carried around his neck had already caused so much hurt to his friends, and soon it would bring insufferable despair crashing down on Legolas' head. How much more damage would this unholy instrument do before it was pitched into Mount Doom? It had destroyed his life, torn him from his home, his security, and all he held dear, and still it toiled for their destruction. He hated the Ring, and a dark seed if bitterness was planted in his heart.  
  
"What is this place?" breathed Strider, seeing the festering new wound in the previously pristine landscape. "I have never seen it before."  
  
Gandalf and Elrond pushed their way forward, unconsciously holding their breaths.  
  
"So they did come this way," muttered Gandalf.  
  
"Yes, and if the exit is open, then Basylis must have fallen," said Elrond.  
  
"That cannot be," insisted Gandalf, shaking his head vigorously, "a woman in her condition could never manage such a feat."  
  
"Nonetheless, the proof lies before our eyes," countered the king. His voice had gone curiously flat.  
  
Gandalf saw with dismay that the king had drained of all color. He looked like a  
  
paper doll inside his velvet coat, and he was trembling uncontrollably. Something was consuming him bit by bit, and it was obvious the great king had all but given up.  
  
Legolas brushed past the two morose men to investigate this strange new landscape. The small hole in what had been a dense thicket was ringed with vicious, snarled thorns and brambles. A foul, fetid odor wafted from the opening. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and turned to go. A silver gleam caught his eye. Intrigued, he bent forward and gingerly manipulated the angry briars until he could free the light object from the brambles' grasp. Lifting his hand, he raised the chain into the moonlight.  
  
All the color ebbed from his world as he gazed at what the lighted had revealed. He looked, seeing but not seeing, the forlorn object that lay in his numb hand. The dainty phoenix stared impassively back at him. He turned around on frozen, disjointed legs.  
  
"Do you know what this is?" he asked in a low, deadly voice, holding out his cold hand toward Elrond.  
  
"I-I," stammered Elrond. Whatever else he had planned to say was lost in an unintelligible garble as a miserable sob escaped him.  
  
"Well you should know it," Legolas snapped, his voice rising. "You were there two hundred years ago as I fastened it around Saryn's lovely neck. It is her joining pendant." He clutched the broken, mud-caked chain in his white fist and was waving it fiercely in Elrond's face.  
  
Legolas was now nose to nose with the pale, wet-faced Elrond, who cringed but did not retreat. "What is such a sacred, beloved object as this doing lying forgotten in this forbidding place when I know that my Saryn lies sleeping peacefully in Mirkwood? I ask you, dear uncle, because you know all."  
  
Elrond could make no answer in the face of such seething, hysterical anger. His mouth worked, but no sound came. "My sins have come for me at last," he said in a grating whisper.  
  
Tears welled in Legolas' eyes, and he dropped all pretense of self-control. "That's why you came here isn't it?" he screamed, spittle flying in all directions. "You knew she was here! You deceiving bastard! Tell me how you knew!"  
  
"She came to Rivendell in search of you. When I would not tell her whither you had gone, she flew into a rage. Thinking to protect her, I had her locked in the tower, but she escaped and fled here."  
  
"Why? Why did she come in search of me?" he growled, grabbing Elrond by his thin shoulders and shaking him. He was weeping now, tears spilling down his frantic face.  
  
"Upon my word, I do not know," choked Elrond, his voice thick with unvoiced sorrow. Even now, he was reluctant to reveal to the young elf the magnitude of his loss.  
  
"Your word holds no honor for me. I know you still practice to deceive me," he yelled, shoving Elrond away from him.  
  
He turned and ran toward Lothlorien, drawing his sword. He was dizzy with grief. He looked around him, praying for any sign of her, but there was none. "SARYN, SARYN, PLEASE COME TO ME!" he screamed his throat straining with the effort. He listened, but there was no sound. "SARYN, PLEASE ANSWER ME!" Again there was no response. He was dimly aware that the others were watching him, but they were unimportant. All that mattered now was finding Saryn. "SARYN, IF EVER YOU LOVED ME, COME TO ME NOW!" he begged, his imploring voice drifting far into the starless night. Silence.  
  
He sank to his knees, his sword falling from his hand. He had no more strength, no more will. The bottom dropped out of his world. For a moment his mouth worked soundlessly, and then he uttered a heart-rending sob. Even Gimli flinched away from the force of Legolas' terrible grief. The prince lay in the grass, his body wrenching with the power of his wails. Never had he felt such an all-consuming pain. It felt as though an enormous spoon had come and hollowed out his insides leaving only unbearable agony behind. "Nonononono," he chanted, slapping his hands on the dry earth.  
  
The rest of the fellowship stood in numb horror. Gandalf hung his head in shame. Three of the hobbits were goggling at him in slack-jawed misery, their lively eyes muted with anguished sympathy. Boromir was studying the surrounding landscape, his face a pale bruise. No one saw Frodo scurrying curiously toward a distant lump.  
  
"I stand to lose just as much as you, perhaps more," muttered Elrond, reeling drunkenly where he stood.  
  
Legolas did not hear him; grief had smothered his senses. Boromir did, however, and he regarded Elrond as though he were an uninvited substance on the sole of his boot.  
  
"Even in the midst of your nephew's grief, you consider only yourself. Arrogant bastard," he spat, and stalked away.  
  
Elrond's retort was cut short by a shrill cry from the distance.  
  
"Strider, there are people here," called Frodo.  
  
Legolas stood up and took off like s shot, ruthlessly shoving Gandalf to the ground. He dropped to his knees beside the three inert forms Frodo had found. They were not humans, but elves. Hope flickered in his chest. He gently examined them. The first was a male elf he did not recognize, and he was delirious with fever. The second male has a badly arm. The third lay facedown on the ground. A little prayer on his lips, he rolled the body over. Saryn.  
  
His wife, his life, his world lay sprawled bonelessly on the cool ground. An anguished whimper tore from his lips as he beheld her pale, filth-streaked face. She was pitifully thin, her bony arms like matchsticks. Her stomach was swollen, probably from starvation. She had paid a heavy price to reach him.  
  
He gathered her lifeless form to his chest and crooned desperately in her ear. "Wake! Wake, my love. Please..."  
  
There was a slight stirring in his arms, and he was greeted by the sight of his beloved's deep blue eyes staring vaguely up at him. "Legolas," she gasped. "My love." The effort was too much, and oblivion claimed her again.  
  
Legolas scooped the body of his unconscious wife from the ground. Her frail arms dangled limply at her side. Without another word, he turned and sprinted toward the haven of Lothlorien, his duties to the fellowship forgotten.  
  
Hold on, my love, he thought. Lothlorien is near. Galadriel will know what to do. Lords of Elbereth, do not take her from me. I cannot survive without her. He was sobbing, hot tears dripping onto her uptilted chin. He had never considered life without her, and now that it was a real possibility, he was insane with grief. She was so pale, so still. Why didn't she move?  
  
He had no memory of how long he ran. He kept going until he crashed into Haldir's stern back. He staggered back, struggling not to drop his wife onto the hard ground.  
  
"Wha-?" began Haldir, but he stopped when his gaze fell on Legolas' terrified white face and the slack form he cradled in his arms.  
  
"Haldir, help me," he begged, choking back sobs.  
  
"This way," Haldir snapped, concern stamped on his haughty face. They both turned and began running toward Galadriel's castle.  
  
Back at the stunned remnants of the fellowship, only Frodo noticed King Elrond weeping softly in the dark. These tears were different than the ones he'd shed before. These were more like cleansing tears. Not quite. Then understanding smoothed the young hobbit's face. They were tears of relief.  
  
11 


	19. Renewing the Bond

When Saryn came to herself again, she found that she was lying nestled in an enormous curtained bed, cool white sheets pulled up to her chin. Where am I? she thought groggily, reaching a stiff, white hand up to wipe the sleep from her eyes. Wherever she was, she had been bathed. The hand that had been caked and crusted with mud and slime was now supple, scented faintly with the odor of honey soap. The sleep had done her good. She no longer felt dizzy and detached from everything, as though she were observing things from outside of her body, but she was still ravenously hungry.  
  
She sat up in the bed, wincing as the muscles in her back gave a sharp twinge. Moving slowly, she tossed the thin coverlet aside and swung her feet onto the hard wooden floor. In no hurry, she stretched placidly and looked at her surroundings. She was in a large, airy room decorated with rich, luxuriant, brocade tapestries. A polished cherry table sat on her immediate left, host to a heavy, pale yellow pitcher and a vase of freshly cut mint. To her right was a simple mahogany door. It was flanked by a matching cherry bureau on the left and an armoire on the right. Turning to look behind her, she saw a set of glass doors, beyond which lay a balcony overlooking a bright spray of late spring forest. There was also a chair hidden in the corner. Someone was sitting in it, head drooped to their chest, their breathing deep and steady. Asleep.  
  
Telvryn, she thought, it's Telvryn. Sweet dear, he's been watching over me. If that was Telvryn, then where was Cerek? Probably dead. The fever had all but consumed him the night they had escaped the bog, and she had way of knowing how long ago that had been. Even then, he had been beyond all salvation. Surely he was gone now.  
  
She started toward the sleeping Telvryn, intent upon rousing him from his slumber so that they could set about discovering the nature of their predicament. If they were in hostile territory, she had no desire to linger long, and if they were not, then she wished to thank their kind benefactor. She had only gone a few tentative steps when the sweet smell invaded her nostrils. Wild strawberries. Her heart skipped a beat and then began triphammering in her chest. Could it be? A soft, hopeful cry spilled from her lips, and she glided across the room to the chair on eager feet.  
  
There could be no doubt as to the occupant of the chair. Legolas, not Telvryn, sat slumped in the soft cushioned chair, his chest rising and falling as he breathed life into his troubled dreams. Even at rest, his beautiful face wore a pained, uneasy expression. A few strands of blond hair had tumbled onto his face, and she reached out a trembling hand to brush them away. She needed the simple act of contact to reassure herself that he was real, not just a vivid phantom conjured up by her fevered mind to distract her as she tumbled into the nothingness of death.  
  
He stirred at her gentle caress and his stormy gray eyes fluttered open.  
  
"Saryn!" he cried when he saw her.  
  
Suddenly she was enfolded in his strong, warm embrace, his arms infusing her with all of his love. She wept then, soft hiccoughing sobs of relief, and he led her back to the bed, whispering loving words of comfort in her ear. At last she was at his side again, no longer enslaved by fear and doubt. She clung to him, reluctant to let him go, lest the Fates should snatch him away again.  
  
"Saryn," he said, pulling himself away to cup her tear-streaked face in his hands, "Oh, Lord of Elbereth be thanked that you live. You were so pale and lifeless in my arms that I thought you had passed into Valinor. I was so frightened without you. You can't imagine the terror I felt in my heart as I faced the thought of life without you."  
  
"Well I can imagine it, my love, for it was just such a terror that drove me to find you," she replied, stroking his cheek.  
  
Their blissful reunion was interrupted by the entrance of Haldir, who flung the door open with a loud crash. He was flanked by Galadriel and Elrond.  
  
"Forgive me, my friend," he said, looking immensely relieved. "I heard cries and thought something was amiss with Her Ladyship." To Saryn he said, "Good afternoon, Lady Saryn. It soothes my heart much to see you awake after such a long time."  
  
"Do not apologize, my friend. I am grateful for your prudence," answered Legolas, inclining his head in gratitude.  
  
His eyes darted to the faces clustered behind Haldir. When he saw Elrond, his face hardened.  
  
"I bid Her Highness welcome," he said, "but as for him, if he should pass over the threshold, I will strike him down. Much did his deceit nearly cost me. I will not abide his hands upon my wife."  
  
Galadriel flitted serenely into the room. "Still your tongue, Legolas," she said calmly. "Your emotions undo you, and your conduct is unbecoming. This is my realm, and I decide who shall go and who shall stay. Well you know that Lord Elrond has been an excellent physician to Saryn. It is because of his tireless care that she now stands recovered before you. Bitterness is dangerous young one; let it not lead you astray.  
  
Legolas flushed a furious red but said nothing.  
  
Saryn watched the exchange between her husband and Galadriel with some trepidation. It was evident that he was furious with King Elrond, but for what she could not guess. She had never heard him speak to anyone that way, least of all a royal, and the acidity and bare hatred in his voice frightened her.  
  
"Welcome, Saryn. I am Queen Galadriel of Lothlorien," said the queen, extending a lily hand.  
  
Saryn took the hand and kissed it, bowing her head in deference to the radiant personage before her. She was ashamed of her tear-stained face and disheveled hair. Such a great lady as this commanded order and beauty, and right now, she had neither to offer.  
  
"Do not fear," said the queen, sensing her discomfiture. "Indeed I did not expect to find you half as well as you are. Lord Elrond has mended you well. All of the castle, of the realm is at your disposal, but first I would have Elrond examine you to his satisfaction. Given your condition, it is the only prudent course." She looked at Legolas, who had fixed her with a befuddled stare, then back at Saryn. "Does he yet know?"  
  
"No, Your Highness," answered Saryn, a secretive smile curling her lips.  
  
Galadriel nodded. "Then I leave Lord Elrond to his examinations. If you need but the smallest trifle, ask, and it shall be yours." With that, she flashed a mysterious smile at the by now hopelessly confused Legolas, and vanished through the open doorway like a puff of smoke.  
  
Elrond stepped forward and began to gently palpitate her swollen abdomen. From the corner of her eye, she saw Legolas bristle, his jaw clenching furiously, but he made no move to intercede. His anger and confusion swirled across his face, a kaleidoscope of raw emotion. She reached out and took his hand in her own, giving it a gentle squeeze. Some of the tension drained from his face, and he stroked her small hand lovingly with his thumb.  
  
"Are you having any pain?" Elrond asked, probing her stomach with his fingertips.  
  
"None, my lord," she replied.  
  
"Any unusual discharge?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Any bleeding?"  
  
"No."  
  
He gave her abdomen a few more gentle proddings and stood. I can find no harm, but have more care in the future. Is there anything else you require, my child?"  
  
"I am half-mad with hunger and mightily desire a hot bath," she said.  
  
"As well you should," he said approvingly. "For eighteen hours have you lain here, unmoving and pale. I will have supper and a bath brought up forthwith. Anything more?"  
  
"Sir, my friends?"  
  
Elrond sighed. "My sentry has suffered a badly broken arm, but he is well on his way to good health. He is resting comfortably in the room at the opposite end of the corridor."  
  
"And the other?" she asked hesitantly.  
  
The elf king's face grew grave. "Whatever befell him in that foul bog is beyond my skill to heal. He shall be lucky to survive until dawn."  
  
"I fear I am responsible for his fate," she whimpered miserably. Had I not shot him in the throat, he never would have passed beneath the shadow of the bog."  
  
"Hush, child," he soothed, "it is useless to torment yourself with what has already passed; it will do you no good."  
  
Inside his head, the malicious voice of doubt spoke up. Fine advice indeed. Why, then, do you not heed it? Hypocrite.  
  
"If there is nothing else, m'lady, I will take my leave," he said, suddenly wanting more than anything to escape into the fresh dusk air.  
  
"No, there is nothing, Your Majesty. Thank you," she said.  
  
"Very well, then." He patted her hand and gave the scowling Legolas a curt nod before retreating from the room.  
  
Legolas waited until the door snicked closed before he turned his bewildered face to his wife. "Saryn," he said, taking her hands in his own, "What comes of all this poking and cryptic speech?" he beseeched her. His voice was plaintive.  
  
Surprisingly to him, she stood from the bed and laughed. "My dear husband, I was certain you would have grasped the nature of things by now." Her deep blue eyes were alight with merriment.  
  
He gaped at her. "I know only that Elrond has taken much interest in the strange swelling of your belly. I beg you, tell me truly of that which ails you."  
  
"Ails me? Oh indeed! All women should wish for such an ailment!"  
  
She was howling with laughter, her creamy face apoplectic with mirth. She clutched her sides and sank down onto the bed, tears streaming down her cheeks.  
  
When she had recovered enough, she wiped her streaming eyes with the back of her hand and said, "Oh, my sweet Legolas, it appears your worry for me has clouded your reason. I suffer no ailment, but rather a glorious blessing."  
  
"A blessing?"  
  
"On the same day you set out from Rivendell, I went to see the midwife, for my bleeding had not come. She told me such wonderful tidings. The day we have long hoped for has come. Dear one, I am with child!" She stood and twirled happily before him.  
  
Legolas sat frozen on the edge of the bed, certain he had not heard her correctly. Surely she had not told him that she was with child. That was an impossible dream, one he had abandoned long ago. Could it be? Had they really been blessed after two hundred years?  
  
"I'm sorry, darling. I fear I did not hear you correctly. Did you say that you were with child?" His voice was barely above a whisper.  
  
"Yes! Isn't it splendid, love?" she answered. She was beside herself with glee. The look on her husband's face was priceless.  
  
"Truly?" he asked, still certain that it was a cruel joke.  
  
"Love, never would I deceive you. It is so." She took his hand and placed it upon the small swell of her belly.  
  
He drew a sharp breath as his hand touched the smooth, unyielding protrusion of her belly. So it was true then. Inside of his wife's womb lay all of his nebulous hopes and formless dreams. Beneath his clumsy, groping hand, his heir took shape, drawing upon the history in its blood to form strong arms and sturdy legs. All of my life, I have dreamed of this moment, and now it has come to pass. The gods have blessed me with a child, an heir, yet he shall be much more. He shall be my legacy and an everlasting monument to our undying love, he thought.  
  
He scooped the unsuspecting Saryn off her feet and gave a celebratory whoop, swirling and dipping her in great, looping circles. Looking at her as she squealed in frightened delight, her delicate neck exposed, her hair flying in all directions as they spun, he was filled with a sweet, heady contentment, and for the briefest of moments, he was convinced that he knew how the souls in Valinor felt each day.  
  
"Long have I waited to hear those very words," he said breathlessly, setting her down before his arms failed him.  
  
"Long have I waited to say them," she replied, brushing her lips against his.  
  
They spun around at the sound of several throats clearing in unison. Three guards stood watching them with barely concealed grins. One bore a tray holding a large pot of soup and two loaves of bread; the others carried between them a large wooden tub of steaming water and a cloth sack filled with bubble beads.  
  
"Well, what are you staring at?" he demanded excitedly.  
  
"Nothing, sir, take no offense. It's just that you are in an exceedingly good humor, it seems," responded the tray-bearing guard.  
  
"Well, of course I am," he quipped, a big goofy grin spreading across his face, "I am to be a father."  
  
"Ah, congratulations, my lord," the guards chorused, stamping their feet in lieu of applause.  
  
"Yes, yes, thank you," he cried, flapping his hands as if to shoo their plaudits away. "Please put the food on the table and the bath over there. Then you may go. My wife needs her rest."  
  
Saryn laughed behind her cupped hands as the guards did as they were told and scurried away, parting with a final round of congratulations.  
  
"My dear Legolas," she tittered, "already you spoil me."  
  
"And I intend to spoil you beyond all reason," he declared, pulling out her chair from beneath the small table.  
  
She giggled helplessly and sat down to eat. The soup was a rich, creamy potato, and she devoured it greedily, reveling in its smoothness as it coated her long-neglected stomach. First one bowl disappeared, then another, her hunger only seeming to grow with every spoonful. She was halfway through her third bowl when she noticed Legolas' calm eyes watching her.  
  
"What is it? Have I got a spot of cream on my chin?" she inquired, reaching for a linen napkin.  
  
"No. I was just thinking of how barren you neck looks without this," he said, pulling out the silver joining pendant.  
  
Her hand flew to her neck, dismay registering on her face. In all of the excitement of their reunion, she hadn't noticed it was missing. "Oh no! How could I have lost it?" she cried, tears welling in her eyes.  
  
Seeing her sadness, Legolas scrambled from his seat and rushed to her side. "Do not weep, my love," he soothed. "It is but a small matter of fastening it around your neck again. Haldir has already repaired the clasp. See?" He lowered the small chain over her head and snapped it around her neck.  
  
"All the same, I am ashamed to have lost it," she sniffled.  
  
She finished her fourth helping and pushed the bowl away a few minutes later.  
  
"Are you sure you will have no more?" he asked, wiping his mouth and offering her the pot.  
  
"No. If I eat one more bite, I shall pop," she said, pushing back her chair and standing up.  
  
As if to drive the point home, she uttered a loud, sonorous belch. Legolas gaped at her in open-mouthed shock.  
  
"Oh my! Excuse me," she apologized with an embarrassed snicker.  
  
She turned toward the tub, intent on stripping and sinking into a hot bath, but Legolas' strong arms wrapped around her waist.  
  
"Legolas, though I am pregnant, I assure you that I can still walk," she chided gently.  
  
"Neither walking nor bathing was on my mind," he whispered, his warm breath tickling her ear.  
  
"Oh? Perhaps I can be persuaded to delay my bath," she said in a throaty whisper.  
  
"Indeed," he murmured, hands sliding up to cup her breasts through the soft fabric of the simple nightgown she wore.  
  
Her breathing quickened as his expert hands roved her body, caressing her in all the right places. She cried out as his fingers brushed her hard nipples. Valinor, but he knew how to make her body beg for him.  
  
"I see your body is of the same mind as I," he smirked, turning her around and pressing his lips to hers.  
  
She opened her mouth, and his warm tongue darted inside to explore the familiar confines of her willing mouth. She moaned into him as his hands squeezed her aching breasts. Her body screamed with desire, and she pulled him close.  
  
"Take...take...," she begged, the fire between her legs driving all rational thought from her brain.  
  
"Take what?" he teased, knowing full well what she wanted.  
  
"M-," was as far as she got before he jerked the nightgown over her head and tossed it into the corner where it was promptly forgotten.  
  
He loved the sight of Saryn's naked body. Her glowing white skin and voluptuous curves intoxicated him, especially when she was flushed with desire as she was now. The sight of her glistening sex inflamed his already considerable passion, and he reached down to stroke her, catching his breath when she moaned and thrust against his hand.  
  
"Is there something you want?" he cajoled, lowering her to the floor.  
  
She nodded, her eyes dark and burning with unspoken lust.  
  
"Well?" he asked, trying to stifle a smirk.  
  
Too far gone with desire to speak, she yanked mutely at his pants, exposing his own desire. She hissed in anticipation and spread her legs in silent appeal as he settled on top of her.  
  
"Are you sure no harm will come to the child?" he asked as he positioned himself.  
  
"The child has survived the bog of the damned; it will survive the tender ministrations of its father," she gasped, wrapping her legs around his hips.  
  
Thusly encouraged, he entered her, tensing as she screamed, then relaxing when he realized it was a cry of pleasure, not pain. He settled into a slow and delicious rhythm, savoring her soft heat. His eyes, hazy with arousal, drank in the sight of her as she writhed and lunged beneath him, her eyes rolling in ecstasy as he pleasured her. He lowered his mouth to her engorged nipples and began to suckle, eliciting a soft shriek of approval.  
  
He increased his tempo, groaning as she flicked her tongue slowly over the sensitive tip of his left ear. Only she could make him feel such a strange mix of unbridled lust and love. He wondered if she knew how beautiful she looked when they made love. She had to know what her mere touch did to him, the sensations it brought out in him. Coherent, linear thought disintegrated when she began tracing her fingers around the supple perimeter of his ears.  
  
His body surged forward, now beyond his control. The small part of him that was still aware of the world around him heard her laugh as she cried out, the secret place between her legs contracting, clutching at him, as she reached her climax Then he heard her crying his name over and over, a frenzied litany pouring from her lips.  
  
"Yes, yes, Legolaslegolaslegolas," she chanted, raking her nails down his back, drawing thin weals of blood.  
  
Instinct took over completely, and he drove himself within her with a hoarse cry, his climax blotting out everything but the concentrated ecstasy between his legs. He shuddered at her calming touch, sinking on top of her with a happy sigh. His senses were always heightened after lovemaking, and he could smell her sweet pear scent beneath the more pungent odors of sweat and sex. Her heartbeat fluttered beneath his ears, still elevated from her exertions. He listened as it gradually slowed, assuming its more customary trotting lubdub.  
  
"I love you, Legolas," he heard her say, her fingers running through his sweat-dampened hair. "Don't you ever leave me again."  
  
"Never," he said, and drifted to dream in her arms.  
  
26  
  
While Legolas and Saryn consummated their reunion, the rest of the Fellowship sat downstairs in the Great Common Room, trying to ignore the racket. A roaring fire crackled in the mammoth fireplace, and it was around the hearth's gaping mouth that they now sat, each nursing a goblet of red wine.  
  
"When I swore allegiance to this quest, it was to send the Ring into the fires of Mount Doom, not suffer the hellish torture of listening to elves couple," groused Gimli, stopping his ears.  
  
"Likely the elves would say the same about the coupling of dwarves," pointed out Boromir, his words slurring slightly. The full goblet he now held precariously in his hands had not been his first.  
  
"There are worse things to hear than the coupling of two devoted elves, Gimli," said Gandalf with a humorless grin.  
  
"Such as?" countered the dwarf.  
  
"Such as the coupling of orcs," came Gandalf's retort.  
  
The dwarf paled considerably. He had not thought of that unpleasant possibility. There was a retching sound to his right. Boromir was struggling with his gorge.  
  
"Here now," he said indignantly, "why must you conjure in our minds such foul images?"  
  
"I was merely providing Gimli with an example," snorted the wizard defensively.  
  
"Yes, well, at least she's not a screamer," Boromir observed, taking another generous gulp from his goblet.  
  
"What's a screamer?" asked Pippin, eyebrows knitted in confusion.  
  
"Ah, a screamer, my friend," said Boromir, swaying dangerously on the edge of his chair, "is a mythical creature. Every man wishes to couple with her, for if they can coax from her lips a scream, it is proof of his prowess and virility."  
  
"What's so bad about that?" said Pippin.  
  
"Nothing for the lucky fellow that pries a ululating cry from the creature, but for his unlucky companions who must hear the sound of her screams while receiving none of her benefits, it is torture indeed. Some have been known to go mad," related Boromir, thumping his goblet on his knee for emphasis and sloshing red liquid onto his pants.  
  
"I hope I never cross paths with a screamer," declared Pippin, properly awed.  
  
"I shouldn't trouble myself overly much if I were you," said Boromir, and the group exploded into peals of laughter.  
  
Only Elrond did not join in their mirth. He was not disturbed or offended by their chatter-he was old enough to know that such was the talk of men of all races. No, he was rendered silent by darker thoughts. Since their arrival in Lothlorien, he had known the time to face his past had come. For most of the day now, Galadriel had been calling out to him in his mind, bidding him come to gaze into her mirror. He had resisted, knowing all too well what it would show him, but it was no use. She was too strong, too insistent. She always won.  
  
Tomorrow he would go to Galadriel. After all these years of running from the truth,  
  
there was nowhere left to go. 


	20. Secret Bonds

27  
  
The next morning dawned bright and crisp over the golden leaves of Lothlorien. A warm breeze wafted through the dry leaves. Down below their tower room, the elves went about their daily business, their merry voices piercing the otherwise calm air. Saryn, though, noticed none of this. She was bent over the brass chamber pot, vomiting up the remnants of last night's bountiful supper.  
  
"Shall I call the healer?" Legolas asked anxiously, stroking her back.  
  
"No, no need," she rasped, swiping at her mouth. "It is the normal course of things for a woman with child."  
  
She picked up the pitcher from the bedside table and took a sip of its contents, swirling it around in her mouth and spitting it into the pot. Then she stood and crossed the room to the bureau, passing the now cold tub of bath water they had used after their lovemaking. She was content, happy, and she hummed as she picked up a brush and began to tend to the numerous snarls in her long blonde hair.  
  
"Here, let me," he said, moving behind her and slipping the silver brush from her hand.  
  
"Ere long, I will have forgotten how to do everything with all your pampering," she laughed.  
  
"Yes, but you will have learned new and better skills, like suckling a new born babe and changing dirty swaddling. A fine mother you will make." His free hand roved to her belly and stroked it fondly.  
  
"I hope you are right. I feel so unprepared, having no mother of my own from whom to learn and seek advice."  
  
"We shall learn together, and what we do not know will be discovered through experience. I will support you always. Besides, there are plenty of experienced mothers in Mirkwood who would be only too happy to lend a hand in raising a crown prince." He smiled, running his fingers through the spun silk of her hair, gathering it and twisting it into small braids.  
  
"What do you wish for most, a girl or a boy?" she asked, smiling at his reflection in the mirror.  
  
"Though I wish I could say it did not matter, in truth I hope for a boy. I want to teach him how to shoot, how to track the prints of the smallest bird in the deepest snow, how to be a warrior. But," he added hastily, "I would not be any less glad if it were a girl."  
  
"So," she said, raising her eyebrow in mock indignation, "my prince does not fancy the fine arts of garden tending and sewing. How else do you think food arrives at your table, my lord? Or your clothes masterfully mended? 'Tis not magic, sir."  
  
"No, but with your skillful hands, it surely seems so," he said, planting a kiss on the top of her head.  
  
"Silver-tongued flatterer," she snickered. "Would that I were not so skilled. Mayhap then you would spend more time out of your trousers for me to admire."  
  
"Such a saucy wench!" he rebuked, giving her hair a playful tug.  
  
"Aye, and you would have me no other way," she agreed.  
  
He chortled, fastening each of the two tiny braids in her fine hair with a bit of black twine. His skilled hands moving deftly, he then joined them together in the back, forming a tiny halo. When that was done, he grasped the last remaining strands of hair and used them to make a thicker third braid that tapered to her waist. It was his favorite hairstyle, but one she seldom wore. She said it was too fancy for garden work. If he was lucky, she wore it to the annual banquets and balls, but those were rare happenings. Most of the time, she let her hair hang free or merely put it into a simple braid.  
  
When he was done, she inspected his handiwork in the mirror.  
  
"Oh, Elbereth, Legolas, you are always so elaborate," she groaned, touching the top of her head.  
  
"But you look so beautiful that way. Why do you not like it? Wear it for me, please?"  
  
She looked at his plaintive face and relented. "Oh alright, love. I never could refuse you," she sighed, turning to kiss him on the cheek.  
  
Just then, there was a knock on the door, and a young sentry entered carrying a gown in his arms.  
  
"Delivery for Lady Saryn," he chirped, snapping his heels in salute.  
  
"From whom?" said Legolas warily. "I have requested nothing."  
  
The sentry suddenly looked very uncomfortable. "I'm not at liberty to say, sir," he said, ears going a mild pink.  
  
"Why not?" asked Legolas.  
  
"I was told to deliver this to Lady Saryn. That is all I know. Shall I put it on the bed?"  
  
"Yes, thank you," Saryn spoke up, keenly aware of her husband's inexplicable reticence. "And could you send someone to retrieve the bath water?"  
  
"Yes, of course, m'lady," said the sentry, relieved to have escaped from the prince's interrogation.  
  
When he had gone, Saryn and Legolas moved to look at the unexpected gift. The gown was exquisite, a dainty thing fashioned from black crushed velvet. The bodice and hem were studded with tiny pearls, and the laces were of a shimmery, gossamer material Saryn had never seen before. Beside it lay a flowing cloak with an enormous black onyx clasp that winked in the sunlight. On top of this was a pair of thin, black velvet slippers, also decorated with minute pearls.  
  
"Oh…it's gorgeous," she breathed, trailing her finger across the soft fabric.  
  
Legolas said nothing. There was something about the dress that angered him, though he wasn't sure why. He was certain Saryn had no clandestine suitor; her kind heart would never abide infidelity. Still, he found himself quietly furious as he gazed down at the breathtaking dress in front of him. Something about it bespoke presumptuousness, unentitled familiarity. It was the kind of thing he should have bought for her but never had. She had simply never asked for such things, and he had never thought that she might want them.  
  
Yet here she was holding the dress against her body and standing before the mirror, making soft coos of delight. He had to admit that she looked stunning even without putting it on, and the realization only increased his agitation.  
  
"Oh, how lovely!" she cried, spinning around to face him. "I can't wait to try it on." Her eyes were shining with excitement.  
  
"I don't think you should wear it today," he said. Though he knew he was being unreasonable, he didn't want to see her in that dress.  
  
"But why not? You just said you wanted me to be beautiful. In this dress, the queen of the orcs would be a fetching personage."  
  
"Be sensible," he barked, much more sharply than he had intended, "you are with child now. It's far too hot to be traipsing about in such a dress. Your beauty should no longer be your chief concern."  
  
"Forgive me, husband. I have angered you," she quavered, stung. "I will do as you say." She dropped her eyes and returned the dress to the bed.  
  
Legolas was horrified with himself. Never had he spoken to Saryn in such a tone, and now he had reprimanded her without cause. While she carried his child no less. I am a thoughtless brute, he berated himself as he watched her slip her simple white gown over her slumped shoulders. What had come over him? So a dress had come? What if it was a gift from Galadriel and not Elrond, as he suspected? He mustn't let his fury at his uncle spill over onto Saryn again.  
  
He felt even worse as they descended the stairs and Saryn's eyes remained fixed on the ground. Though she tried to hide it, he could see the bright sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, and his heart nearly broke in remorse for his baseless anger. He would make it up to her. They would take a moonlight stroll, and he would sing to her. He would make a wreath of lilacs for her hair. He would do anything to make her smile at him again.  
  
He consoled himself with these thoughts as they crossed the Great Common Room to the large, formal dining hall where the rest of the fellowship had already gathered. Galadriel and Celeborn presided at the head of a long table. Elrond sat on their right, and two vacant seats sat on their left, presumably saved for him and Saryn.  
  
"Good morning, Legolas, Saryn. I trust you slept well?" Galadriel greeted them, her serene smile faltering the slightest bit when she saw Saryn's crestfallen expression. "Come, sit and eat with us."  
  
He led the silent Saryn to her place at the table and gallantly pulled out her chair. He winced inwardly as she sat stiffly, her usual grace strangely absent. Galadriel shot him a questioning look but said nothing. He took his seat, excruciatingly aware of everyone's eyes fixed upon them. He took her limp hand in his own, but there was no reassuring squeeze in response.  
  
He cleared his throat. "Everyone, may I present my lovely wife, Saryn."  
  
Saryn raised her bowed head, a smile pasted onto her lips, but Legolas knew it was not the genuine, carefree smile of true happiness. It was the polite, professional smile she used when forced to be in the presence of his father. His heart ached as he watched his normally vivacious wife exchange banal pleasantries with each member of the group as they introduced themselves. What a terrible hurt I have caused. All she wanted was to look beautiful in my eyes, and for her desire to please me, I have rewarded her with harshness, he thought miserably as he filled his plate from the brimming table.  
  
Only the hobbits were oblivious to the strain between Saryn and Legolas. They were busy devouring everything within reach. Their plates were sagging beneath the weight of eggs, bacon, sausage, and a plethora of fresh fruit. Pippin, the most jovial of them, was talking excitedly about the best strain of tomatoes, a yellow dollop of egg dribbling down his chin. It was a scene that should have brought him solace, but he could find none in it. His eyes were inexorably drawn to his wife's expressionless face, as if his conscience was trying to remind him of his error. He could hardly bring himself to eat.  
  
Celeborn, who was not nearly as dull as Elrond supposed, looked at Saryn with kind, concerned eyes.  
  
"Is everything well, child?" he asked in his distant, lilting voice. "You seem troubled."  
  
"I am well, sir. I suffer only the normal trials of a woman in my state. I am grateful for your concern," she replied in a prim, formal voice, and returned to her meal.  
  
Though Celeborn was a kind man, she had no desire to discuss personal matters with him. She still burned with humiliation and confusion. She had never been spoken to like that by Legolas. For a terrible moment, he had sounded just like his snarling father. What had she done to provoke him? She could remember nothing out of the ordinary. Whatever had happened, it was nobody's business but her own. She impaled a chunk of melon on the sharp tines of her fork and shoveled it into her mouth, eating only because if she didn't, the tears would come.  
  
In his chair across from her, Elrond had no trouble guessing the reason for Saryn's melancholy. The dress. He had hoped it would be received as a peace offering between he and Saryn, but it had only caused more trouble. How had Legolas guessed the gifts origins? Intuition, most likely. There were only four people that could afford such finery. He, Galadriel, Celeborn, and Boromir. Of the four, only three would have reason to send a gift at all, Boromir having never made her acquaintance. And only one of the remaining three would have had any knowledge of her measurements. A healer learned his patient's body rather quickly. No, it would not be hard for intelligent Legolas to surmise the truth about the dress. He should not have bothered with secrecy at all. It had only made things worse.  
  
Such is the way of things with you, jeered the voice inside his head. Everything you touch crumbles into dust. You are a blight and a scourge to all who suffer you.  
  
Finally, Legolas could take no more. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed back his chair.  
  
"I thank Your Highnesses for the wonderful breakfast, but now I must speak with Haldir. Saryn, will you accompany me?" he said, offering his arm.  
  
"No, I will not," she answered, ignoring the arm.  
  
The unflappable Celeborn spluttered into his cider.  
  
"Methinks the prince does tread on brittle ground indeed. We will see his sleeping form on the cold sofa in the Great Common Room this evening. There will be no carnal embrace for him tonight," Boromir muttered under his breath.  
  
Now, it was Strider who spluttered into his goblet. Gandalf dealt Boromir a swift kick beneath the table, eliciting a yelp, but the sly grin never left his pale face. Legolas narrowed his eyes and glared at Boromir's smirking face, but he said not a word. He could find none. Saryn had never refused him the slightest whim, and now she would not acknowledge his arm. The pain of her rejection, even one so small as this, crushed him.  
  
"Very well, m'lady," he said with as much dignity as he could muster. "Then I leave you to your leisure." He kissed her hand and retreated from the room before the pain in his heart spread to his face.  
  
When her husband was gone, Saryn turned her attention to Boromir, who was surveying her with a mischievous gleam in his eye.  
  
"You take far too much interest in my affairs, sir," she said in a soft, speculative voice.  
  
"How could I not? Your affairs kept the whole hall from peaceful slumber last night," he countered.  
  
"Are you so desperate a man that you would concern yourself with the tender dealings of an elf and his wife? There are houses available to take care of such urgent needs."  
  
Boromir was flummoxed, but only for a moment. "Why lay blame for your unabashed wantonness at my feet, lady? I expected better from a lady of your breeding."  
  
"Of my breeding? You know not of what you speak. Besides, can I be held accountable for my husband's prowess as a man?" Her voice rose dangerously, and her fingers curled tightly around the stem of her goblet.  
  
Boromir eyed the simmering elven lady with wry interest. She was feisty, this one. She had hardly batted an eyelash when he had mentioned her tryst with Legolas the night before. He had expected a burst of embarrassed indignation, a snit of red-faced spluttering, a hot denial of the pleasure she took in her union with Legolas. Instead, she was bandying about witticisms and insults like a man. For a woman to exhibit such behavior was disconcerting and intriguing at the same time. He decided to press her further, to see how much she would take.  
  
"My lady," he said in a deliberate, even voice, swirling his index finger around the rim of his goblet, "how is it that you can speak so assuredly of his prowess? Have you known many men?"  
  
Gandalf groaned and sank lower in his chair. Frodo was watching them, his fork raised halfway to his mouth. Boromir was moving into extremely personal territory now. Galadriel and Celeborn were observing the unsettling display with dim alarm, the latter chewing softly and thoughtfully on a slice of apple.  
  
Saryn's already troubled brow darkened further. "I have known no other man of any race, sir," she answered, her voice heavy with implied threat.  
  
"Then how is it that you are so certain of Legolas aptitude as a man? To make such a claim without first having tested the facts is unwise."  
  
"What delicious-," began Gimli, desperately trying to curtail the violence he saw brewing around them like an ominous thunderhead, but he was cut off by Saryn's acid retort.  
  
"One need not taste filth to know quality. For instance, I have seen no other man of Gondor, but I do not need to see one to know you are the most wretched of the lot, though your bearing suggests you to be of noble rank," she said coldly, slamming her hands down onto the white linen tablecloth.  
  
There was a watery snort of laughter from Strider, whose brawny shoulders quaked with silent amusement. Gandalf steepled his gnarled hands in front of his face and bowed his head. This was going from bad to worse. Celeborn coughed, choking slightly on the apple he was eating.  
  
"Have I touched upon a nerve, lady?" he jeered. "You are a buxom lass, and rather unapologetic of your pleasure in the most carnal of acts. I cannot believe that Legolas is either the first or the last to have enjoyed your…bounty," he said calmly.  
  
Deep inside, Boromir knew he was going too far, but he could not stop himself. He had to keep going, had to know her breaking point. From the look on her face, it wasn't far off. He also couldn't deny that there was something sensual about her in her anger. When she had appeared, silent and grave, on Legolas' arm, she had barely merited his notice. She was just an ordinary-looking elf, pretty certainly, but with far too many angles for his liking. But her anger had done something to her, transformed her into an entirely different creature. It had made her brighter, more vital. Her blue eyes were now cobalt with fury, and as he watched her, her small nostrils flared. The bosom of which he had spoken so crudely was now heaving. Yes, he had awakened something powerful and bewitching insider her, and he did not intend to let it go dormant again.  
  
"You take far too much liberty with your tongue, sir," she said through clenched teeth. "My conduct before and after my union with Legolas is beyond reproach. I do not have to prove myself to a bawdy urchin like you. I am not like a loose-skirted wench of Gondor. If I may ask, Lord of Gondor, why do you concern yourself so mightily with the cries from my bedchamber? Is it because, in all your years as a man, you could never inspire such pleasure in the women you sought to ravish? If so, you are more pathetic than I first believed."  
  
There was a clunk followed by a muffled burbling sound as Strider laid his head on the table and used the tablecloth to stifle his unseemly merriment. Gandalf pull the brim of his hat down over his foggy blue eyes, no longer able watch the eloquent carnage. The fork Frodo had been holding all this time plopped into his pile of scrambled eggs that had been long cold. The dim alarm in Celeborn and Galadriel's faces had ignited into obvious distress. They were accustomed to quiet, serene fellowship, not this chaotic, undignified row raging before them. They exchanged consternated glances.  
  
"A lady of Gondor would never comport herself like a common whore in the royal palace," he snapped, wiping his bangs from his eyes.  
  
"Ah, in that case, your conception is a great mystery to me," she sneered, rising from her chair with her goblet in hand.  
  
Whatever game Boromir had been playing ended at the questioning of his mother's virtue. A terrible, red rage colored his vision. How dare she disparage his noble mother thus. He had conveniently forgotten all of the vulgar insults he had so carelessly and glibly tossed at her feet. Trembling with self-righteous rage, he hurled one final slander at her retreating back.  
  
"Uncouth wench! It seems Legolas has sold himself too cheaply to the first trollop to pass through his bedchambers. Though of royal rank you must be, you are as foul as the leavings of an orc. You are not worthy of Legolas."  
  
The rage he could not achieve with all his jesting, exploratory barbs found its voice at last. She rounded on him, china doll hands clenching and unclenching with fury. Her pale face was contorted, and for a moment Boromir thought he was looking at a cleverly disguised orc. Then the paroxysm passed, and her face smoothed out again. She was looking at him with smoldering eyes. The air was pregnant with a nauseous tension.  
  
"Be not offended, Saryn," began Galadriel, but that was as far as she got before Boromir got his reward.  
  
A guttural, feral snarl clawed from Saryn's lips, and she lobbed her goblet at Boromir's head. It missed, but barely, skimming over his hair and crashing into the wall behind him. He felt some of the cool black liquid rebound and splash onto his shirt. He looked up at the sound of high, frantic Elvish. Saryn was unleashing a torrent of invective in her native tongue. He couldn't understand a word, but whatever she had said, it must have been vile, because Elrond's jaw unhinged with an audible creak. Galadriel's feeble pleas for decorum were drowned out by Saryn's caustic ravings. She had lost her senses.  
  
As suddenly as the tirade started, so did it stop. She closed her mouth and glared at him, eyes brimming with scalding, baleful tears. They stared at each other across the room, predator and prey. Boromir was seized with the sinking feeling that he had made a dreadful mistake, awakened a terrible beast he should have left alone. Her eyes were searching him, marking him for future retribution. There was no fear in them, no respect, no jest, only a burning hatred that made him feel small and sad. He was just about to apologize when she whirled and stalked from the room, hands still opening and closing like an external heartbeat. He wondered if she even realized she was doing it.  
  
The room was silent for several long minutes after Saryn's departure. No one trusted themselves to speak. When he had collected himself, Boromir asked in a strangely muted voice, "What did she say just now? I'm afraid I don't understand Elvish."  
  
"She said," answered Elrond in a musing tone, "'Now I understand why the race of men make such a show of their swords. They use them as compensation for that which the gods forgot to give them at their birth."  
  
"Oh," he said. He had severely underestimated her indeed.  
  
28  
  
For her part, Saryn was storming up the endless spiraling staircase to her room, muttering imprecations under her breath. The blood was still pounding in her ears, and her eyes felt strained and hot. The day had not gone well. First Legolas had turned on her with his inexplicable fit of temper, and now a dirty, wretched human had insulted her virtue. Filthy bastard, she thought, how dare he presume to question my worth. Damned humans. In their arrogance, they think themselves better than everyone else, fit to judge the deeds and actions of others when it is they who are the weakest and most corrupt of the lot.  
  
What of it? said the bland, unerring voice of her inner self. Vulgar as he may be, he intrigues you. No one has ever been so bold and so frank about matters of the flesh. Most elves speak of such things in whispers. His irreverence for so sacred a things offends you, yet it stimulates you in ways you would prefer to express. For all your propriety, you know that part of you admires such openness, such forthrighness. You love Legolas, yes; of that there is no doubt, but all the same, you sometimes wonder what it would be like in the carnal embrace of another. Like Telvryn, for instance. Back in the bog, you pondered ever so briefly, what it would be like to touch him in the most delicate of manners. And now this crass human arouses your most base of curiosities. That is what angers you, is it not? The fact that this brutish creature titillates you in the darkest, headiest of ways.  
  
She gave a contemptuous snort. That was ridiculous. She was hardly attracted to that slimy, reprehensible rabble. And the brief lapse over Telvryn in the swamp could be explained quite easily. She had been under a great deal of stress, not to mention the fact that the swamp had preyed on her already fragile mind, used its malevolence to coax out the darker side of her personality. Even if she were attracted to the muscled, rugged visage of this Boromir of Gondor(and she wasn't), she didn't intend to do anything about it. Legolas was the most important thing in her life, and she had no intention of hurting him. Now or ever.  
  
She had reached the top of the stairs and was about to enter her room when a flicker of movement caught her eye. She turned and peered into the hallway, half-expecting to see Legolas there, but it wasn't. It was Telvryn, and he stepped forward with a broad smile on his face.  
  
"M'lady," he said affectionately.  
  
"Telvryn," she said happily.  
  
She almost hugged him before she realized what she was doing. She dropped her arms abruptly and stepped back. Now that she was reunited with Legolas, such contact was forbidden. No matter what they had been through together, proper decorum must be observed. Besides if that Gondor fool happened to come up and see her hugging another elf, albeit innocently, his tongue would be wagging the news before they could disentangle themselves. She gave Telvryn a wistful smile.  
  
He returned the smile, painful understanding in his eyes. "It is good to see you up and around, m'lady. You were in quite grave condition when the prince brought you inside. Forgive me for not calling upon you sooner, but I did not think it would be…proper," he said.  
  
"No offense was taken by your absence," she reassured him. "I have been very busy by all accounts, much to the disdain of some. Besides, you had your own injury to tend. How is it, by the way?" She gestured at the rigid brown wrap covering his left arm.  
  
"Oh, it's not so bad as it seems. At least not anymore. Lord Elrond is an excellent healer. He says I shall be fine in three weeks," Telvryn said, a note of admiration in his voice.  
  
"Yes, he is quite proficient," she conceded. "And what of Cerek? Has he yet passed into shadow?"  
  
"Miraculously, no. He survives beyond all expectation, yet it seems impossible that he can last much longer. The fever still consumes him," he told her, his face grim.  
  
"I wish to see him," she said.  
  
"My lady, I do not think it wise. He is not fond of you, and if he should see you, he may try to do you harm."  
  
Saryn rolled her eyes and crossed her arms across her chest. "Please. If he is in the shadow of death and burning with fever, I doubt he will have much success. If he were to attack me, surely you would come to my defense?"  
  
"Without hesitation," he confirmed, standing a little straighter.  
  
"Then I have nothing to fear. Let us go," she commanded.  
  
They set off down the sun-flooded corridor, careful to keep the requisite six inches of space between them. It was a sweet torture for Telvryn, having her so near to him, yet so out of reach. She was more beautiful than ever now, free at last from the weight of worry she had been carrying. Her ivory skin glowed with an ethereal vitality, and her hair trailed behind her like a crown of golden fire. Her pear scent, no longer masked by the foul reek of bog mud, was dizzying, and it took all of his will to walk straight. He was becoming aroused again, much to his chagrin, and he fervently prayed that she would not notice. If only you were mine, he thought wistfully.  
  
The room in which Cerek lay dying was in a quiet recess off the main hallway, a small, cozy room whose thick walls blocked out all sound. You'll die in silence, my friend, she thought, and shuddered. Though well- lit by a large bay window and several wall sconces, the room seemed dimmer than the rest of the castle. The oncoming death had muted the light, sapped it of its warmth. The air was heavier in here and smelled of infection and decay. There was such an air of hopelessness and desolation that her heart dropped in her chest and tears threatened to spill down her face for the third time that day.  
  
The approached the gargantuan bed that cradled Cerek with heavy footfalls. Saryn fought to stifle a gasping sob. This was not an elf. This was a dried-up husk that somehow drew breath. What was left of Cerek lay rasping against cool white bedsheets, eyes open but blind. He was emaciated, his fingers hard, scrawny twigs covered in flesh. His face was gaunt; his cheekbones thrust against his papery skin like brittle pikes. Pus still suppurated from the scabby cuts, oozing its malignancy down his hot face. The smell was sickly-sweet, like meat left to rot in the sun. That's what he is now, just rotting meat. He's rotting from the inside out. She gagged as she sank to her knees beside him.  
  
"How…can…it…be…that he still draws breath?" she asked, struggling to speak as horror clamped around her chest like a vise.  
  
She trailed her finger lightly down the length of his body, starting at his chin and wending and whirling her way down his caved-in chest and shrunken stomach. He burned like a sack of hot coals beneath her fingertip. It was like touching a dead animal, and she recoiled.  
  
"I do not know how he survives. Lord Elrond is amazed," he answered.  
  
She bowed her head and moaned softly, her face pinched and miserable. All of his suffering was her fault. She had shot him, after all. If she had been more prudent with her bow, he never would have been in the bog. She cursed her carelessness. She had always said she would kill to protect Legolas, but now that she very nearly had, she felt a terrible guilt wash over her in a poisonous wave.  
  
Telvryn, sensing her misery, tried his best to comfort her. "M'lady, you are not to blame," he said, wanting to touch her but not quite daring.  
  
"Heh," she scoffed, not looking up, "what a pretty lie that is. You know I am to blame. I shot him."  
  
"Yes, that is true, m'lady, but your arrow did not mar his face with the cuts that carried the sickness to his blood. That was the work of my hands," he reminded her.  
  
"Ah, then I am not a murderer but merely a collaborator. What consolation that brings me!" she snapped.  
  
Telvryn retreated to the other side of the room. Her guilty rage made him want to cradle her in his arms, but he knew it could not be. In her present demeanor, doing so was likely to carry dire consequences, perhaps even physical reprisal. He contented himself with watching her as she sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Cerek's forehead.  
  
She wondered what it must be like for Cerek as the last of his life was slipping away from him. Did he feel any pain? Did he understand what was happening? Did he dream, or did he only float on a sea of black tranquility? Was he fighting for his life, or had the last sentient part of him already ceded the battle? She would never know. She sighed and began unbuttoning his tunic.  
  
"What are you doing?" Telvryn asked.  
  
"Trying to make him a little more comfortable that's all," she said, pinching the filthy article of clothing between her fingers and gingerly pulling it off Cerek's fevered body.  
  
"I'm not sure that's wise," said Telvryn.  
  
"What's it going to do, kill him?" she spat. "If it does, it will be a far gentler death than the one that awaits him now. Why has he been left in such filthy clothes?"  
  
"Well, they were clean yesterday. He sweats uncontrollably. Besides, everyone was worried about you."  
  
"About me now? Fine thing! Why? Because I am the wife of a prince, and he is a lowly sentry? That speaks well of Lord Elrond."  
  
"M'lady, you must understand, Legolas was frantic about you. He insisted Elrond tend to you at once, the others be damned. If he had tried to leave you, your husband would have fought him," he pleaded.  
  
"Yes I suppose you're right," she said, her mouth twitching with a reluctant smile. "But…how do you know this?"  
  
"I was conscious when they brought me inside about thirty minutes after you. You could hear him bellowing at the healers upstairs. When Elrond arrived with our company, he left us at once to see to you. I could hear him berating his lordship, telling him that if he did not heal you and atone for his betrayal, he would pay with his life," he explained.  
  
"Did you indeed?" she mused.  
  
She said no more to Telvryn, but she turned this revelation over in her mind as she dipped a cloth in cool water and ran it over Cerek's still form. What her faithful companion had said explained much. Long had she been perplexed by the heavy tension between Elrond and her generally relaxed husband. Now it was apparent that Elrond had breached Legolas' trust or honor in some way, but how? It must have been a grave affair indeed for noble Legolas to threaten another royal with death. She would have to ask him when he returned from his visit with Haldir, though Elbereth knew when that would be. He was extremely fond of conversation, especially with those he had not seen in some time. In all likelihood, he would not return until long after the moon had ascended to her throne. Not to mention the other matter that lay between them.  
  
She grimaced as she remembered the quarrel between them. Such a silly thing! She had been far too sensitive. Her pregnancy must be getting to her. Legolas hadn't been himself, either. His arduous journey had made him irascible, and the news of his impending fatherhood must have come as a shock to him, especially so soon after nearly losing her. A lesser man might even have raised his hand to her. Yes, she had overreacted. She would apologize when he returned, make amends to her beautiful lord for her baseless anger. Maybe then they would take a stroll along the moonlit forest pathways and he would sing to her. How she loved his voice. It caressed her as deftly as did his fingers, made her feel warm and protected and loved.  
  
The room was quiet except for Saryn's lilted, tuneless humming as she bathed Cerek. The grime came off his sallow skin in dark streaks. She had to refill the dirty water several times before she arrived at the daunting task of washing his fetid, tangled hair. She forlornly recalled how beautiful it had once been, golden like liquid sunshine. Now it was matted with mud, blood, sweat, pus, and vomit. It felt like stiff yarn beneath her fingers. He made neither sound nor movement as she pulled him toward the washbasin, only lay still as a corpse in her arms.  
  
"Telvryn, please bring me a chair," she asked, struggling to hold Cerek's upper body off the edge of the bed.  
  
Telvryn hurried to her side carrying a heavy mahogany chair that he set behind her. She fell into it with an ungainly flop, unable to support his dead weight any longer. Doubtless this was an activity of which Lord Elrond would not approve. She waited until she had recovered a bit to reach for the wash basin. She sat it on her lap and gently placed Cerek's head into it.  
  
The water turned black immediately. She sighed and refreshed it, only to have it turn blacker still. She refilled it half a dozen times more before it remained clean long enough to do any good. She moved her hands through his hair in smooth even strokes, pausing only to dislodge stubborn clots of crusty vomit and pus. Her humming grew louder the harder she worked, and soon the room was filled with her nightingale song. Back and forth, back and forth went her small hands, until, little by little, she coaxed a glimmer of its former glory from beneath the filth.  
  
When she had done all she could, she smoothed his hair upon her knees to dry in the light of the sun. It was still hopelessly tangled, but she had no comb, so she made do with running her agile fingers through the tangles, pulling apart the one she could and fretting over the rest.  
  
"M'lady, what troubles you?" Telvryn asked, startling her out of the meditative state the soothing, rhythmic work of caring for Cerek had induced. "Since I have known you, you have been burdened by the weight of much worry. You are reunited with your husband, and yet you seem no better. What could still deprive you of the tranquility you surely must once have known?"  
  
She snorted. "My life has been a string of troubles ever since Thranduil conceived to send his son on this strange mission. I know not yet what it is, but it most be of considerable importance if all the races are gathered together. I endured untold hardships to reach my husband's side, only to find myself confronted with a loathsome, boorish human named Boromir of Gondor who saw fit to publicly question my virtue."  
  
"Where is this cad?" said Telvryn, leaping to his feet in indignation. "I'll make him pay for his tawdry insinuations." He grasped the hilt of his sword.  
  
"I should waste neither my time nor my energy on the endeavor if I were you," she said. "He is incorrigible."  
  
"All the same," he huffed, "I'd like to teach him a lesson."  
  
Saryn laughed, a pure unadulterated sound of quiet joy that made him smile. "My dear Telvryn," she managed at last, "what a noble friend you are to me. What would I do without you?"  
  
He smiled. He was glad to be called her friend, but his heart ached to be called something more. He wanted to hold her, dance with her, bury his nose in the soft down of her hair. To look at her filled him with a crushing longing, but the thought of losing her forever because of words foolishly spoken was insufferable. He held his peace.  
  
"Come, help me put Cerek back into bed," she said. "I can do no more."  
  
Together, they rearranged him in the bed, Saryn pulling the sheets up to his chin. He looked so lost within the sea of sheets that she lingered a moment longer before stepping out of the room and closing the door behind her. Elrond was waiting for them outside.  
  
"My Lord," she said, surprised to see him there.  
  
"Ah, Saryn, I was hoping to find you. Do you mind if I examine you?" he said.  
  
"No, not at all," she said.  
  
"Excellent. Let us retire to your chambers. You have soiled your clothing," he said.  
  
She looked down at herself. He was right. A slimy, gray streak of dead skin and old sweat from Cerek's body traveled the length of her dress from the skirt to the hem. She flushed a little, embarrassed that so high an elf lord should see her covered in filth, and very nervous. Suppose he wanted to confront her with her actions in Rivendell. No matter how noble her intentions, she had broken several sacred elven laws, and sooner or later, there would have to be retribution. The same thought must have going through Telvryn's mind, for he drew closer to her, his hand tightening around his scabbard.  
  
They stopped outside her chamber door, and Elrond said, "You may go, Telvryn. This is a private matter."  
  
"If you don't mind, sire, I'd like him to stay with me," she said quickly, reaching out and brushing her fingers across Elrond's robed arm. If she was about to be arrested, she would prefer to have a friendly face nearby.  
  
The king stared at her a moment, surprised. His murky brown eyes flitted to Telvryn, who was standing rigid as a tentpole at her side. Then he nodded.  
  
"Very well," he said slowly, "but you both know the rules."  
  
They nodded, and he bid her enter, following closely behind her. Telvryn went to stand on the opposite side of the room, eyes riveted on the wall behind the bed. When an expectant woman was being examined, only the father and the healer were generally present. In the rare instance when a stranger was present, he was forbidden to look at the lady under any circumstances. Saryn settled into a chair by the bed, and Elrond knelt in front of her.  
  
"Turn around and face the wall, Telvryn. It will be easier that way," said Elrond as he probed her belly and muttered and hmmed to himself.  
  
It was obvious to Saryn that the healer's mind was not on his work. His hands were inattentive at best, often slipping, sometimes staying in one place for minutes at a time. He asked no questions, only made vague noises in the back of his throat. His eyes were dim and far away. Finally after his warm, dry hands had circled her abdomen three times, she could stand it no more.  
  
"An exam was not foremost in your mind when you called me in here, was it?" she asked.  
  
"No…no, it wasn't," he admitted, dropping the pretense and getting to his feet. He sat on the bed, hands in his lap. "I was hoping to discuss other matters."  
  
"If it is about my escape from Rivendell, I am prepared to accept the consequences. All I ask is that I be allowed to celebrate the joyous occasion of my child's birth with my husband first," she said, jutting her chin in an unconscious gesture of defiance.  
  
Elrond uttered an odd, barking laugh. "The incident in Rivendell? My dear child, that was the furthest thing from my mind at the moment, though it will have to be dealt with later. No, I came to talk to you about the dress."  
  
"The dress? But how do you know about the dress?" She was shocked. This was the last thing she had expected.  
  
"I know about it because I ordered it done," he answered almost guiltily. "I was hoping to make it a peace offering for my ill-advised conduct. I am as much to blame as you are for all that came to pass there. If I had told you the truth instead of locking you away, perhaps everything would not have descended into madness as it did."  
  
She gave Elrond a sad smile. "If peace be what you intended, sire, I'm afraid your little gift has had the opposite effect. Legolas was quite upset by it, though I don't know why."  
  
"More of my doing, I'm afraid," he said. "After you escaped, I feared you dead. I raced to Moria hoping to intercept Legolas' party. When he saw me there, away from the sanctuary and stronghold of Rivendell, a place I have not left for many centuries, his suspicions were aroused immediately. He knew it must be a matter of the utmost gravity for me to be traveling unescorted. He asked me about your welfare, and I lied to him, told him I knew nothing, when all the while I was certain you were no more. His suspicions were not allayed. If anything, they grew stronger. All the while, I was planning how best to tell him the dreadful news. When he discovered your joining pendant entangled in the bushes outside the Bog of Basylis, he realized the reason for my journeying with them and flew into a rage. He called me a deceiving snake, which all things considered, is true. He is still angry at being so ill-used, I suspect. It is unlikely he will forgive me in the foreseeable future."  
  
"Well can I understand my love's displeasure," she said when Elrond had finished, "but I do not understand what he thinks he could have done had he not been so cruelly deceived."  
  
"Nor I," agreed Elrond. "If I had told him the truth, he may have found you faster, but it is more likely that he would have taken leave of his senses and fallen to the orcs at Moria. Worse still, he might have turned back to Mirkwood, hoping you had returned there. If that had happened, we never would have found you."  
  
Saryn considered this, rounded chin resting against her folded hands. "I know my husband, sire. He is a man of passion, but he is also a good and just man. When his rancor has died down a little, I am certain he will come to understand that you meant no harm."  
  
"I hope you are right," he said bleakly.  
  
"I trust that I know my beloved better than you," she said gaily. "In the meantime, the gown I am wearing is no longer serviceable. As there are no other dresses currently at my disposal, I am obliged to try the one you have so graciously given me. I can see no reason for Legolas to object, lest I be forced to cavort naked through this splendid castle." There was a mischievous glint in her eye as she spoke.  
  
"I can find no fault in your logic," said the king, trying to remain stern, but the merry glint in his eyes betrayed him. "Shall I summon a handmaiden?"  
  
"Yes, I think it would be wise. The dress is delicate and far more elaborate than any I have ever worn," she said.  
  
"Splendid," said Elrond, obviously pleased. "Come, Telvryn," he said, turning to the sentry who was still standing with his face to the wall. "Close friends though you may be, this is not a sight for your eyes."  
  
The pair headed for the door. The king opened the door, then turned and stood in the half-open doorway. "If it please you, I would very much enjoy a stroll in the garden when you have dressed. Does that suit you?"  
  
"Very much, sir," she answered, bowing her head in deference.  
  
He nodded. "Very good. I shall await you at the bottom of the stairs." He turned and closed the door behind him.  
  
The handmaiden arrived almost as soon as the door closed, a ruddy, cherub-cheeked lass with an open, pleasant face. Together they struggled into the elaborate dress, the merry little nymph giggling as she adjusted the skirt and refastened the too-loose cloak. Lord Elrond had measured well, and the dress clung to her, accentuating every swell and curve. A small trane flared out behind her, and the sleeves were a diaphanous black mesh that tapered to a point halfway down her middle fingers.  
  
"Lord Elrond instructed me to give this to you," said the cheerful handmaiden.  
  
In her outstretched hands, she held a stunning black diamond circlet. From its fragile middle dangled a small, black diamond surrounded by hundreds of pinprick white diamonds.  
  
"Oh, Elbereth, it is beyond my power to describe," Saryn breathed, eyes aglow.  
  
She took the priceless object and tried to fit it on her head, but her hands were shaking too badly, so the eternally happy handmaiden did it for her. The black diamond came to rest in the center of her forehead.  
  
"There you are," she chirped, "all finished. Oh, what a vision you are, if I may say, m'lady." She took Saryn by the hand and led her out the door.  
  
For Telvryn, watching Saryn descend the stairs in her elaborate gown was a beautiful agony. She was a vision in black velvet as she made her way shyly down the stairs. The dress complimented her lithe grace and fragile beauty. She deserved such finery. Now that he had seen her this way, he could picture her as nothing else. He turned his head so that she could not see the dewdrop tears in his eyes.  
  
Elrond, too, was moved by what he saw, but not for the same reason. She was stunning, this being he had watched from afar for so long. Never had he imagined she would be so gorgeous. Looking at her in all her royal regalia, he understood what Legolas must have seen in her two hundred years ago. This is what my sin has wrought, he thought. How can something so exquisite have come from such ugliness? He swallowed, trying to banish the lumped that had suddenly formed in his throat.  
  
"How lovely you look," he said when she reached the bottom, hoping she wouldn't notice the tightness in his voice. "Shall we go?"  
  
"Of course, my lord," she said, smiling.  
  
Elrond watched her as they emerged from the shadowy castle into the bright, fragrant gardens. She lifted her face to the warming rays of the sun like a rose unfurling its petals to the sunrise. She seemed oblivious to the curious stares and lustful gawks of the other elves as she meandered the winding stone pathways through the garden, her small feet gliding along, stopping long enough to admire one plant or another, then dancing away again.  
  
"My lord," she said after they had been walking a while, "tell me of humans. Are they all so barbaric?"  
  
Elrond laughed, a rich, deep laugh, the kind he had not enjoyed for many days now. It felt wonderful to him. "They are strange creatures indeed."  
  
As he whiled away the hours meandering through the endless gardens of Lothlorien alongside his deepest sin and greatest pride, Elrond was filled with an emotion he had never truly known before. Contentment. 


	21. Confronting the Past I: Clouded Visions

The feeling of contentment faded as soon as he saw Galadriel standing by her mirror later, long after night had drawn down over Lothlorien. She had been waiting for him. Her soft blue eyes swam out of the silvery night like two small beacons, and the knowing compassion in them was so terrible that he faltered a little as he approached.  
  
"It is time," she said simply. Her voice was soft, the sound of wind rustling through dry reeds.  
  
"I know, but I am afraid. And ashamed."  
  
"Only the very foolish would hold no fear," she said, looking steadily down at him.  
  
That made him feel a little better, but he was still terrified of what he must do. Even now, as he stood on the threshold of exorcising his personal demons after countless centuries, his frightened, cowering mind shied away from the enormity of the task before him. He knew very well what he would see in her mirror tonight; the secret he had tried to bury for so long was going to come to light at last, rising from its restless grave like a hideous and tragic specter. He couldn't do it. Though the prospect of freeing his tired soul from the burden of the awful guilt of his distant past was appealing to him, the fear and self-loathing he felt was too strong.  
  
"I can't…I shouldn't-," he began, turning to leave, but Galadriel laid an insistent, restraining hand on his shoulder.  
  
"For all these long years, you have fled from your past, tried to hide from the truth in your fortress of Imladris, and still the truth has pursued you all the same. If you do not face it now, you will never be free of the demons that haunt your dreams. The past will never go away, not for us." She moved toward the fountain, picking up the silver carafe. Her blue eyes never left him. "The secret you carry consumes you. It feeds on your fear and shame, leeching the strength from your bones. It will never let you rest. It will kill you if it can. Come, look into the mirror and be cleansed." She held out her hand in silent invitation  
  
Elrond stared at her hand, white as marble and floating in the air like a glowing dove. There was nothing holding him here. He could run if he chose. He was tempted, oh so tempted to do just that, but she was right. If he walked away now, the truth would still be there, like a malignant tumor skulking beneath healthy white skin, working its evil magic in silence, undiscovered and unacknowledged until it was too late. He sighed and stepped forward on treacherous knees that threatened to buckle at every step.  
  
No! What are you doing? Stop! gibbered the fearful voice in his mind. It was the voice that had held him captive for all these years. There is no need for this. You can live with the secret as you always have! It's better that way! Let the past sleep.  
  
Except the past had never really slept, not for him. For the first time in two thousand nine hundred and thirty years, he pushed the thought away. He took Galadriel's outstretched hand and looked up at her, the terror naked on his face.  
  
"Do not fear, my brother elf," she said, giving him a small smile of such heartbreaking warmth and love that he nearly wept, "I will not let you fall. Look. The healing begins."  
  
Elrond looked into the placid surface of the clear water, into Galadriel's mirror. And remembered everything.  
  
30  
  
Nearly three thousand years before he would find himself at the mercy of Galadriel's mirror, Elrond, lord of Rivendell, presided over the lavish banquet table prepared in honor of the vernal equinox. To the right and to the left of him sat the high society elves of Rivendell, the brightness of their silk finery nearly blinding him. The tiara of a beautiful elven debutante blinked in the bright torchlight, and he winced. Beside him, his promised, Celebrian, turned to look at him, creamy brow furrowed in concern.  
  
"Are you alright?" she asked, resting a delicate hand on his forearm.  
  
"Never better, my dear," he laughed, taking her hand. He was, in fact, feeling wonderful, healthy and alive with his beloved at his side. He turned to look at her, struck as always, by her flawless beauty. Hair so black it looked like spun oil cascaded down glowing white shoulders. Dark chocolate eyes looked back at him, and a pink candy mouth twitched in silent amusement. Staring at her, he was suddenly filled with a rush of helpless love, and before he could stop himself, he pressed his lips to hers in a fierce kiss.  
  
"My lord," she breathed when they had parted, "what has come over you? I think the wine has gone to your head." She pressed her fingers to her still-tingling lips in surprise.  
  
"Nonsense, my dove! I am just so happy to be near you now." He laughed again and offered a more chaste kiss to her cheek.  
  
But it wasn't nonsense. On the night his life would begin to spiral out of control, the night his guilt was bought and paid for, the wine had indeed gone to his head. As he sat upon the long dais with his love, he was already passing from the realm of sobriety into the surreal territory of initial tipsiness. It was twenty minutes past ten in the evening, and he was already two goblets beyond his normal limit. He excused this rare lapse in judgment with the fact that it was a rare and important occasion. The colors were brighter to him, the noises louder and sharper. Looking back, he would tell himself that he should have known better, should have recognized his drunkenness and pushed the later offerings of wine and ale away. If only he had seen.  
  
For now, though, he was blissfully unaware of what awaited him. He sat with Celebrian's warm hand entwined in his own and looked out at the lively merriment before him. The great hall was thronged with hundreds of elves, their faces hectic with revelry. Though they could not be seen, hundreds more milled about the lush, open courtyard, their distant voices drifting inside only to be drowned out by the lively strains of the octet playing discreetly in the corner. At the back of the hall, a troupe of lithe, gazelle-legged dancers spun and pirouetted across the floor, their sheer gowns trailing behind them like wisps of smoke.  
  
A woman in a salmon evening gown flitted past Elrond, and he made a moue of disgust, thinking that she looked like an undercooked ham. Celebrian saw the look and shot him a worried glance.  
  
"Are you well? Does your head trouble you, my lord?" she asked, thinking that his overindulgence had caught up to him at last. In truth, she was a bit worried. She had never seen him drink so much so freely. Most of the time, he was far more prudent, contenting himself with no more than three glasses of ale or wine, but tonight she had already seen half a dozen goblets pass by his lips, and the merrymaking was hardly underway. She supposed it couldn't hurt; tonight was a special festival and there were plenty of servants to care for him should he need it. Tomorrow he would pay for his hedonism with a splitting head and return to his usual abstemious routine. She decided not to ruin the mood.  
  
"I am perfectly fine, beloved. I was only thinking what a terrible shame it is that not all women can possess your grace and beauty," he answered jovially, his words quick but not yet slurred.  
  
Celebrian giggled girlishly and brushed a stray lock from her forehead. Such a flatterer was Elrond, always showering her with little comments, telling her she was beautiful and priceless and grand. He made her feel divine and pure, as if she were the only woman in the world. She loved him with a love so complete that it frightened her. Sometimes when she lay nestled in the crook of his arm as they watched the passing clouds in the cerulean sky above, her love for him filled her until she thought she would burst. The feeling engulfed her now as she saw him sitting happily upon the upraised dais wearing an expression of hazy happiness.  
  
"Come, love, dance with me!" she cried seizing him by the hand and pulling him to his feet. She was afraid that if she didn't do something she would burst into inexplicable tears.  
  
Elrond followed his fleet-footed dove onto the main floor, wobbling slightly as he came down the three steps leading from the dais. He was not certain he could dance; even he could not deny that he was drunk now, but he would try. He wanted her to be happy. She had suffered much while he had learned to become a leader and the Lord of Rivendell. Even after two years, he was still uncomfortable in the role this life demanded of him. He was gradually growing accustomed to the niggling nuances of his lofty position, and it was largely because of Celebrian's calming presence that he had made it through it all. So for her he would dance.  
  
The octet struck up a mid-tempo waltz, a serendipitous happening for which he was profoundly grateful. If they had chosen a fast reel or looping group dance, he would not have been able to do it. Though from total inebriation, he could no longer be called tipsy. Colors had taken on a shimmery, mirage quality and were painfully bright. The music was still pleasant, but the surrounding din of eating and loud conversation made his head ache.  
  
They danced beautifully in spite of Elrond's earlier unsteadiness. Celebrian led him, steadying him when his feet grew clumsy. She did this, Elrond thought, the same way she had led him through his earlier trials and tribulations, those times when he had been so unsure of himself. She radiated calm assurance, a soothing balm when his mind grew troubled. I owe you so much, dear Celebrian, he thought as they spun languidly across the polished marble floor. I shall never be able to repay you, though I have an eternity in which to do it.  
  
He lost himself in the moment, entranced by the fine gold netting overlying her shining sable hair like a sprinkling of stardust on a velvet tapestry. She looked like a Valar to him then, one of the holy elves who created all the world, for surely it was from her that all things good and pure had come. Afterwards, when his life had unraveled into a living hell of deceit, guilt, and loss, it was to that one moment he would return when he sought a momentary refuge from the horror of his days, that one moment of supreme goodness when all seemed right and hope had still been possible for him.  
  
The enthralled couple danced, and all around them, Elrond's faithful subjects parted and shifted like windblown sands. Most of the onlookers gazed upon the pair with quiet approval. Lord Elrond had toiled long trying to make Rivendell a place of sanctuary for them, and they wished him all the joy this newfound happiness could bring him. Most, but not all. Among the crowd of supporters, one pair of eyes tracked the happy lord and his lady the way a cobra tracks a fleeing fieldmouse. They were black and cold, glittering with unrepentant malice.  
  
The eyes belonged to Lady Sithirantiel, who, until a little over two years before, been the king's consort. She watched her former suitor as he traipsed across the floor with his newest acquisition, the one to whom he had promised his heart, and her stomach twisted in rage. Before this Celebrian had come along, she and Elrond had spent much time together, and rumors had begun to filter through the realm that perhaps Elrond had found a mate and would soon be joined. These words had been like music to Sithirantiel's ears, for she was ambitious and had dreamed of such a powerful joining since she was a small Elfling.  
  
All had gone well for almost a year. Elrond had idly broached the subject of a deeper commitment on several occasions as they wandered the winding flagstone pathways of Rivendell. Then Celebrian had come, and all of Sithirantiel's aspirations of power had crumbled. She still remembered the way her stomach had dropped when Elrond first laid eyes on Celebrian as she stood on the narrow stone bridge, a delicate yellow butterfly cupped in one hand. He had been talking, and his words had trailed away like a diminishing echo. He remained there, staring at the radiant nymph lounging on the bridge for a very long time. Finally, simmering with blind fury, she had called his name. His head had snapped around like a man awakening from a deep dream. Their conversation as they returned to Imladris had been vague and stilted, and she had known even then that it was over.  
  
She was not surprised when he summoned her to his chambers a scant three weeks later, his face pinched but determined. She had understood the reason for the summons immediately; she was ambitious but not stupid. She had struggled with her fury while he waxed on about the winds of Fate and about how sometimes things did not go as one planned. She bit her lip while he had groped clumsily for the right words by which to dismiss her, and when he had at last broken the news to her, she had sat upon her hands for fear that they might reach out to wring the life from his fickle, traitorous neck.  
  
She bore his abandonment in silence. There had been no tears, no angry, hectoring remonstration. She had only looked at him with her dead black eyes and bowed her head. Mistaking her silence for overwhelming grief, he had tried to placate her by appointing her as a courtier to his court so that she could still enjoy the comforts of Imladris. It was a gesture for which he would soon pay dearly. Her silence had not been born of grief, but cold, calculated hatred. Even as she left his chambers for the last time, she had been plotting her vengeance.  
  
These poisonous memories rose up in her like a choking fog, blotting out reason and any semblance of decency that may have survived in the black recesses of her mind and heart. The crystal wine glass she clutched in one hand jittered and plinked ominously, threatening to implode between her fingers. She forced her fingers to relax. She couldn't afford to lose her composure now, not after all of her careful planning. She was so close.  
  
Enjoy it while you can, you silly, interfering bitch, she thought, watching Celebrian's feet as they floated effortlessly across the floor. Because very soon your perfect little world is going to come crashing down around you. I'm going to destroy you both, the king and his whore. A vicious smile twisted her lips at the thought and she clamped down on the inside of her cheek to quell and explosive giggling fit that, had it erupted, would have garnered numerous puzzled stares. Just a little longer, she told herself, and went to rejoin the party.  
  
Elrond saw none of the treachery unfolding around him. He was too wrapped up in his precious Celebrian and the general merriment of the evening. It occurred to him as he returned to his seat, flushed and exhilarated from dancing, that he hadn't felt such happiness since the death of his human father so many years before. That train of thought to resurrect recollections he did not wish to entertain, and he reached for another goblet of red wine. Celebrian opened her mouth to protest but shut it again.  
  
"Don't worry, my sweet, this glass is my last," he promised, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze.  
  
Mollified, she rested her head upon his strong shoulder, and he breathed in her light apple scent. He relaxed into his chair and looked out over the sea of happy faces. The alcohol had dulled his vision, rendering faces indistinct, no more than small white blurbs perched above splashes of blinding color. Even so, his unfocused eyes froze on one particular speck tucked unobtrusively in the near corner. Hair so blond it looked white-hot could only belong to one person-Sithirantiel. A bolt of unease shot through him, though he could not say precisely why. As an appointed courtier, she was perfectly within her rights to be in the great hall. He himself had given her the position. Yet there was something disturbing in the way she stood seen but unremarked in the corner, almost like she wanted him to see her, like she was trying to remind him of his callousness toward her.  
  
He quickly looked away. A nasty affair that had been. He had been fond of Sithirantiel at first. She had seemed so gay and sweet. Soon enough, however, he had noticed a change in her demeanor, a creeping haughtiness and greed. When they met in the royal gardens to stroll and talk, she often looked down at his hands before looking into his eyes, as though she were searching for a gift. Before long, she had begun to talk incessantly of the grandiose castle she wanted to build once they were joined. It was then that he decided to end things with her. Celebrian had merely expedited the process.  
  
Her reaction to the news of his dismissal had been odd. He had mentally prepared himself for a barrage of screaming and tearful epithets, but there had been nothing of the sort. There was just a thick silence and a jerky inclination of her head in response. Truthfully, he had taken it worse than she, giving her the courtier position in an effort to keep the peace. It was a move he was beginning to regret. More and more, he wished he could send her away, but he was a kind elf and could think of no way to do it gently, so he let her stay.  
  
One last drink became two, then three. He was reaching for a fourth when his clumsy, wine-numbed fingers upset the goblet, spilling pungent red wine onto the immaculate white tunic of the attendant elf. It spread across the stoic elf's chest like a bloodstain, and Elrond blinked owlishly at it.  
  
"Forgive me," he muttered. The words were thick and awkward in his mouth, and his tongue felt like a swatch of dry gauze.  
  
"Do not trouble yourself, sire," replied the good-natured elf, and retreated into the kitchens.  
  
Elrond, who had long ago passed the boundary of drunkenness into the sphere of near-delirium, pushed back his chair and tottered to his feet. The room spun crazily for a moment, and he staggered slightly to regain his balance.  
  
"My friends," he said, speaking slowly and enunciating every word to the point of absurdity, "though I have greatly enjoyed our merrymaking, the time has come to bring this wonderful evening to a close. I bid thee farewell and wish to thank you for making this affair such a memorable occasion." With that he turned and made his way down the dais steps, taking baby steps so as not to fall.  
  
For nearly four hours he stood in the receiving line, shaking hands and grunting incoherent farewells to the departing partygoers. They were nameless, faceless blurs to him. He did not notice Sithirantiel's absence from the eternal stream of tired guests, and even if he had, he was far beyond caring. His head was spinning, and his stomach felt loose and bruised. It gave an intermittent, feeble heave as if it was trying to climb up the glass walls of his esophagus, and he had to make a concentrated effort not to retch.  
  
When the last reveler had straggled out into the night, he turned unsteadily to Celebrian, who had been waiting patiently there since the receiving line had begun, and found that she was looking at him in fearful concern.  
  
"Would you like me to stay with you tonight, love?" she asked, reaching out her hands to catch him as he weaved dangerously to the right. He looked dreadful and should not be left alone tonight.  
  
"No, no, my pretty bird," he cried, clapping a wild hand on her shoulder so hard that she nearly fell over. "I'm fine."  
  
"Are you sure?" she said fretfully. "I really think I-,"  
  
"Nonsense," he bellowed merrily, "besides, you know it's against the rules." He fixed her with a solemn stare before resuming the floating wobble that passed for standing still in his unfortunate state.  
  
She considered arguing further but knew it was no use. Even hopelessly drunk, he was not a man to be easily swayed. If his mind was made up, and it appeared to be, there would be no changing it. She would just have to hope the servants helped him to bed. "I love you," she said softly, brushing his lips with her own. Her heart broke a little to see him this way, but she knew that things would be back to normal in the morning.  
  
"I love you, too," he slurred, covering her cheek in a sloppy kiss.  
  
She slowly withdrew her hand and slipped out the door, casting one last fearful glance back over his shoulder as she went.  
  
He watched her leave, then turned to face the magnificent wooden staircase that wended its way from the sprawling main floor up to his posh private chambers. Sober, it would have posed no problem, a pleasant jaunt up forty winding steps that ended at his bedchamber door. He was not sober, not by any means; he was, in fact, so drunk that was nearly poisoned with it. The stairs were now a different beast entirely. It was going to be like climbing Cadharas with lead weights strapped to his feet.  
  
He reeled and lurched his way up the first twenty stairs without incident, stopping now and then to wobble precariously on the edge of one riser before continuing on to the next. He had just placed his foot upon the twenty-first riser when his tattered equilibrium failed him. The world spun and listed around his muddled head, and he teetered wildly, one leg lifted behind him like a manic ballerina. He hung suspended there for a moment, a gangly comic tableau, before crashing facedown onto the stairs with a loud thud, his chin cracking painfully on the step a few paces in front of him.  
  
He lay there in a heap on the stairs, his dim mind belatedly registering the copper taste of blood in his mouth. There was silence save for the sound of his own sluggish heartbeat in his ears. His tired, bewildered mind was trying desperately to send signals to his arms and legs to get things moving again, but at present, all the relays and switches seemed to be hopelessly jammed. As a consequence, his limbs only twitched and waved aimlessly around him. He seemed to be swimming the stairs.  
  
A full five minutes passed before the backlog of synaptic impulses cleared enough checkpoints in his mind to get him started again. He rose shakily to his hands and knees and began to scrabble up the remaining stairs, the two sides of his body badly out of sync, making him look like an arthritic crab. By the time he made it over the final riser, he was exhausted. He slumped against the sturdy door to his bedchambers, his breathing coming in great, snuffling wheezes. Nearly thirty minutes had gone by since Celebrian had kissed him goodnight and take her leave.  
  
When he was sure he could, he used the brass door handle above him as a means to pull himself upright again. The sudden change in perspective made him dizzy, and he leaned heavily on the door, fighting with his offended gorge. He fumbled with the door handle, praying he could make it to the ceramic washbasin beside his bed before the contents of his stomach erupted onto the floor. He succeeded in opening the door on the third try and was about to make a mad dash for the basin when something stopped him.  
  
A lance of fear broke through his stupor like a splash of cold water. The wave of nausea passed, and he stood frozen in the door, one foot raised slightly off the floor. Something was different in this room that should have been completely familiar to him. He was sure it wasn't a physical change(as sure as he could be about anything in his condition), but there was something wrong all the same. The air felt heavier somehow, as though unseen eyes were watching him from the cover of darkness. He took a tentative, trembling step forward.  
  
Who is there? he thought, and a moment later the thought tumbled from dry lips.  
  
"Who's there?" he called to the quiet, beckoning room, only it came out, "Whooozere?" He listened. Nothing. Just the sound of the wind tickling the new leaves on the young tree sprouts in his garden. He sighed. Just your imagination, old boy. Sleep it off.  
  
Good advice. He yawned and lumbered over the bed. Gods, was he going to pay for this in the morning. He pulled pack the light cotton coverlet, and his fingers brushed against something warm and solid. He recoiled in shock. It had felt like the something had been breathing, but that couldn't be. No one else ever slept in this bed.  
  
He screamed when the something spoke low from out of the shadows.  
  
"Hello, my lord," the voice said. The words carried a note of invitation.  
  
"Who are you?" he asked, feeling slow and stupid.  
  
"Why, Celebrian, of course," came the reply. "Who else would it be?"  
  
That seemed logical, but at the same time it did not. A fact niggled at his mind, something he should have remembered, but the alcohol had done its damage, and it refused to coalesce. He furrowed his brow in concentration, and it almost came to him, but then the voice came once more, and it slipped away again.  
  
"Come, my love, I have something to give you." The eagerness in the voice simultaneously aroused and frightened him. It was Celebrian's voice. Almost. It sounded like her, but underneath the warmth and desire, there lurked a coldness, a dark tinge of malice. He almost had it then, the fact that kept slipping away, but the alcohol would not release its grip, and it danced just beyond the veil of his understanding.  
  
The voice spoke to him of things he had long desired, and warm hands reached up from the darkness where the devil holds sway, touching, caressing, full of forbidden promise. The voice called to him, beseeched him, bewitched him, and in the end, he went to it. Gods help him, he went. 


	22. Confronting the past II: The Fall Begin...

31  
  
While the Elrond he had become watched in weak-kneed dread at Galadriel's mirror, clutching the stone pedestal to keep from sinking to the ground, the Elrond he had been awoke with a groan. His mouth felt like sandpaper and tasted of graphite shavings. A tribe of dwarves thundered their iron mallets inside his head. He cracked open his eyes, only to snap them closed again when the light burned them like molten daggers.  
  
"Oh, sweet Elbereth, what a night," he groaned, and sat up. He did not yet see the figure lying silently and watchfully in the bed beside him. He remembered very little of the night before, and it troubled him. The last thing he could recall was dancing with Celebrian. He smiled, gladdened by the memory. He had had a wonderful time last night, the best in ages. He'd done something else, too, later on, but that he could not remember just yet. The fog of last night's debauchery had not yet lifted sufficiently.  
  
He stood up stiffly and shambled over to the bureau to inspect himself in the mirror. Whatever he had done, it must have been quite rigorous; he was naked and there were several fresh bruises on his chest and stomach. His face had fared no better, he saw, when he looked in the mirror. An ugly purple bruise had found a home on the point of his chin. His eyes, usually so keen, clear, and inquisitive, were bleary and bloodshot, red- rimmed and chapped, the eyes of a man in the grip of a long illness. Elbereth, what had he done last night? Celebrian would have a fit when she saw him.  
  
Further examination of his face was interrupted by a violent spasm in the pit of his stomach. He grabbed the edges of the bureau and vomited wave after wave of sour red liquid into the fortuitously placed wash basin, the smell of rancid grapes inciting his already tortured stomach to greater violence. It went on and on, choking off his breath. The pounding in his head sharpened, no longer the heavy-handled mallets of the dwarves, but the searing claws of the orc warrior sent to rape and pillage unwary travelers. Bruised purple flowers bloomed in his vision, and he was very sure he was going to pass out, to choke to death on his own vomit.  
  
"Quite unbecoming of you, Lord Elrond, if I do say, vomiting in front of a lady. And naked, no less."  
  
The voice, so coldly triumphant, was like a brisk slap in the face, and the retch that had been coalescing in his stomach dissolved in an instant. He snapped his flushed face up and looked into the mirror again, this time looking beyond his puffy red reflection. A flash of platinum blonde hair. Glittering serpentine eyes. Sithirantiel. She was sitting up in his bed, crisp white sheets pulled up over her chest. As his eyes slowly focused, he saw that her face wore an expression of terrible glee and awful victory.  
  
"What are you doing here?" he asked without turning around. He was afraid that if he let go of the bureau he would crumple to the floor like a doddering invalid.  
  
"Don't you remember, love? How can you not recall our passionate embraces of the night before?" Her voice was beautiful and savagely mocking.  
  
"You lie!" he spat, whirling around to face her. "Leave at once and take your forked tongue with you." He was trembling in fury and terror.  
  
"I lie not, and well you know it…m'lord," she said calmly. She had been waiting for this moment for many months, and she intended to savor every moment of it. Though her face remained impassive, the face of an eyeless stone idol, she was inwardly celebrating the success of her flawlessly executed plan. The horrified expression on the normally placid elf lord's face was ambrosia to her. It made her feel woozy with exhilaration, tingly, a lyre string too tightly wound. It reminded her of the way she had felt so many centuries ago when she experienced the illicit thrill of her first kiss secreted away in the heart of Rivendell. She had grasped then, just as now, the power in such a small yet somehow forbidden act. One did not kiss strangers the way she had, and one certainly did not bed the quite betrothed lord of Rivendell. Yet she had done both, and done them successfully. A strange thought occurred to her as she relished the look of apoplectic rage etched on Elrond's face. Power lay not in the hands of the grand armies of the earth, but in the subtle words and deeds of men and elves brave enough to do or say them. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to stem a ferocious, jubilant cackle.  
  
"No. You lie," Elrond said again, his hands clenched into tight fists. He stared at her with eyes the color of melting amber.  
  
"I lie not," she said again, her eyes never leaving his face. "If you doubt me, I can go to the midwife for proof. Besides, I am covered in your scent, my lord, unless you know of someone else who smells of toasted coconut." She held out two fingers of her left hand. "This is yours. Go on, smell if you must."  
  
"No. You lie," he muttered again, but the words were more a wish than an indignant denial. Hazy memories of what he had done last night were finally beginning to surface in his mind now that the alcohol had lost its grip on his rapidly sobering brain. Images of writhing, entwined bodies beneath soft white sheets and the sounds of muffled lust rang inside his head. "No." He shook his head vehemently. "No…it cannot be," he moaned, "it was Celebrian in my embrace last night. Celebrian. You lie."  
  
The harpy in his bed threw back her head and laughed, a cold, contemptuous laugh that grated on his throbbing head like a steel pike. Her molten white tresses spilled down her back in white waves. She straightened her head and fixed him with her black eyes, two lumps of polished coal pushed into her pale face. She wore a leering smile.  
  
"My dear Elrond, you are so naïve. Your sweet, innocent, stupid little Celebrian would never do the things we did last night, nor would she permit you the licenses I can assure you took last night. Sweet little prude probably thinks the baring of a breast in the dark a feat of great daring," she sneered.  
  
Looking back at the way things unfolded from a safe distance of a millennium, Elrond would admit to himself that that was the moment she had truly beaten him, the moment his honor collapsed like a wall of sand. But back then, he had been unable to see things clearly. He was blinded by rage, seething at her haughty disregard for everything good and decent, everything he loved about Celebrian-her sweetness, her innocence, her love of life. He crossed the room in three quick strides, intent on making her pay for her impudence. She must have seen something in his face because for the first time that morning, the mask of cool triumph slipped, and he saw a flash of unease on her face. He was viciously glad of it in the instant before he backhanded her out of the bed.  
  
She tumbled out of bed with a surprised squawk and landed in a tangled heap upon the floor. A pale hand clutched her face where he had struck her, and her black eyes, suddenly alive with a dark fire, blazed up at him with such venomous hatred that he would have flinched had he not been so angry himself. "Bastard," she spat, making no move to rise from the floor.  
  
He instantly regretted his actions. He was a kind man by nature, and violence against any creature deeply disturbed him. More than that, he knew he had validated at least some of the unrelenting loathing she had undoubtedly harbored for the past two years. On a less philosophical level, he also understood that seeing Sithirantiel, his former consort, leaving his chambers with a bruised face was bound to raise questions and eyebrows. He wanted her out of here, the sooner the better. He reached down to help her up, but she recoiled, her face contorted in an ugly rictus of fury.  
  
"You have touched me for the last time, you filthy pig," she snarled.  
  
Elrond struggled to retain his tattered equanimity. He was determined not to let his anger get the better of him again. That had already caused enough damage here today. He was equally resolved that she should not see the kernel of regret for what he had done.  
  
"Get up and get out," he ordered. "You are hereby banished from the province of Rivendell. Never shall you pass over the threshold of my realm again. I want nothing more to do with you. Now go, so that I may cleanse myself of your corruption.  
  
Her response was not what he had expected. She gave a short, scoffing laugh. "No."  
  
He stood frozen, startled by her temerity. In his brief time as ruler of the realm, no one had ever opposed him. He was not a tyrannical despot, not by any means, but he carried with him an air of quiet authority that no one dared challenge. Now, treacherous Sithirantiel, sitting sprawled and naked on the cold floor, had openly defied him.  
  
"Yes, you will," he replied, his voice biting and cold, hard as December frost. He reached down and jerked her roughly to her feet.  
  
She was looking at him with her black marble eyes, and he noticed with sinking dismay that she was once more wearing a placid, triumphant expression. She snatched her arm away and moved away from him, clutching the rumpled sheets to her chest. She reached the center of the room and stopped, her small, secret smile growing until it consumed the entire lower half of her face, the mad, mindless grin of a shark. Then she began to laugh, shuddering and rocking to and fro with the force of her mirth. One arm rose up and a slender, accusatory finger jutted out at him.  
  
"Oh, you silly man," she gasped between bouts of uncontrolled mirth, "do you still believe you hold power over me? I am the one who holds power now. Surely you can see that. I have no intention of leaving Rivendell now or ever. If you see fit to compel my departure, I will destroy everything you hold dear. It would take but a moment."  
  
Elrond still blind to the terrible snare that had been so patiently lain for him over the past two years, could only stare at her incredulously. "And how, pray tell, do you intend to do that? Raise and army and march against the city? My dear, there is not an elf in all the number of this great city who would follow you in such madness, and you have mastered not the dark arts to force their minds to your will." He did not boast with his words. They were the simple truth. Nothing could have made the noble citizens of Rivendell turn upon their lord, for, though not long in power, his fairness had inspired their loyalty and trust.  
  
"It is not of Rivendell that I speak, my lord," she purred, her shark- tooth grin growing impossibly wider.  
  
"Then you speak of nothing."  
  
"It does my heart good to know that you hold Celebrian in so little esteem."  
  
"What would you know of so sweet and good a thing as Celebrian?" he snarled, his best intentions to keep his anger in check fading rapidly. "If you but lay one finger upon her adored person, I will hunt you down like the cur you are."  
  
She chuckled. "And they call you Elrond the wise. Fool. There are more, and mayhap, better ways to take her from you than simple murder. Death would be too easy a thing. I haven't waited all this time to play childish games with you. Two years is too long a time for that."  
  
"What are you talking about?" he rasped. He felt a terrible coldness seeping into his limbs from the floor up, a coldness not unlike the one that would grip him as he stared helplessly into Galadriel's mirror after the countless passing of seasons. His heart began to pound in his bruised chest, and he desperately wanted to sit, but he knew that to do so would be a sign of weakness and one he dared not show. He willed himself to stand.  
  
She must have seen the effort on his face because she snorted laughter and moved to sit upon his bed, a proprietary gesture that infuriated him.  
  
"Get-," he started to say, meaning to order her from his bed, but she held up a hand to silence him.  
  
"Things are going to change around here, and one of those changes is going to be that you will not order me around like a common trollop," she said imperiously.  
  
"How dare you presume to dictate to me what I shall and shall not do!" he thundered.  
  
Sithirantiel did not flinch. "I wonder what Celebrian will do when she finds out that she is promised to a man who would violate a woman and then raise his hand to her when she protests his abuse," she said in a musing voice.  
  
There was absolute silence in the room as the gears, gummed and bound from too much wine, finally began to turn in Elrond's head. Now he did sit down. His knees unhinged with an ungraceful pop, and he plopped heavily on the floor. Maintaining dignity no longer seemed relevant.  
  
"I did no such thing," he murmured dreamily, more to himself than to her. His mind seemed to have ground to a halt again.  
  
"Really? Can you remember anything of the night before, anything at all?" She was mocking him.  
  
She looked more like a shark than ever, cold black eyes filled with insatiable bloodlust. At any moment, he expected them to roll upward to whites while her large, boneless mouth opened to consume him in a mindless frenzy. It was a disturbing image, one conjured by a frightened and incoherent mind, but he could not shake it.  
  
"I thought not," she said when he had made no answer for several minutes. "Your careless merrymaking made things considerably easier. I had planned on using a drop of sleeping potion in your wine, but your excess made such a difficult step unnecessary. It was easier than I expected, really. Perhaps I should thank Celebrian for making you so desperate for a woman's caress."  
  
"I know not what I have done," he said in a voice that sounded tired and hollow in his ears, "but whatever happened, passed willingly between us. I felt your eager touch upon my flesh."  
  
"As the walls have neither ears nor eyes, my lord, there is no one to substantiate your claim," she said, absently fingering the corner of a pillow. "There is, however, a waiter who can aver that you were so besotted the effects of Rivendell's finest wine that you spilled it upon his tunic, leaving an irrevocable and very clear stain. Any remembrance of yours would be irrelevant should this matter ever come before a high elven tribunal. Only I know the truth of what happened in this room, and I intend to bend it to my will."  
  
"You wouldn't," he said, but even as he said it, he knew she would. It was clear that she had put much time and planning into this, too much not to go through with it now. She might have even planned the waiter on whom he had spilled the wine, but he did not think that likely. It was a mistake born of his own drunkenness, a fortuitous event that had worked to her distinct advantage.  
  
She was unmistakably mad; that was beyond dispute, but it was not an irrational madness. Even as he sat in stupefied silence in the center of the web she had so artfully woven around him, he could not help but admire it. For two long years, she had labored over it, nursing her hatred while he lay sleeping, deftly connecting the delicate strands as she watched and waited for her time to come. What patience it must have taken to sit in his presence all those nights and watch as he and Celebrian dined, hoping for a night such as the last. And he had been too stupid to see it coming, too absorbed in his rare happiness.  
  
"I must certainly would," she retorted, cutting into his thoughts. "If you do not concede to my wishes, I will go to the high elven council and lodge a formal accusation of violation against you as well as an accusation of abuse of power and the people's trust. Then we shall see just how much dear Celebrian values your tainted love." She was silent for a moment, then continued. "I was rather angry when you struck me at first, but now I count it a blessing, one of the many you have unknowingly bestowed upon me." She traced her finger along the edge of the bruise forming on her cheek as though it were a precious possession and fixed him with her haughty black eyes.  
  
For the second time that morning, Elrond abandoned himself to his fury. He sprang from his chair and fell upon her, wrapping his burning hands around her throat and throttling her. She pried at his squeezing hands, but they were like vises. He wanted to choke the life from her, to feel the bones in her neck grind and snap as he rid the world of this horrible blight. He would have done it, too, if he had not glanced down at her eyes. Bubbling tar pits in a livid face, they glared back at him. There was fear in them, yes, but there was also a perverse glee. Do it! Do it! they cajoled.  
  
An image rose in his mind, sparing her life and forever condemning his. In it, he saw his sentries bursting through the door to find him with his hands still wrapped around Sithirantiel's lifeless throat. There would most certainly be a tribunal then, and they would have no choice but to find him guilty. Worse still, he would not even be able to claim intoxication as a defense. He was stone cold sober. Any hope of binding himself to his Celebrian would be forever lost. He would be stripped of his land and privileges and banished to the land of Mordor, where even Celebrian would not follow.  
  
He flung Sithirantiel away from him with an effort, his face a moue of disgust. She fell backwards and tumbled off the opposite edge of the bed. He could not see her, but he could hear her gasping for air and coughing on the other side of bed. It made him glad.  
  
"What do you want?" he asked when her head reappeared on the other side of the bed. It was the voice of defeat.  
  
"I…want…anything…I desire…any…time I ask…it," she wheezed, coughing and rubbing her throat. Her hair was a disheveled wreck and there were hectic red patches on her cheeks.  
  
"Impossible," he snorted, already regretting that he had released his grip. "Not even the wife of an elven lord is granted that much power. It would call too much attention to you. I won't do it."  
  
"Apparently, you still do not understand the precariousness of your position, my lord," she croaked, trying to sustain her self-assured demeanor even as a runner of drool dribbled down her chin. "I will give you twenty-four hours to decide what you value you most-your pride or your love." She wobbled to her feet and slipped on her dress. Then, as if nothing whatever were amiss, she bowed and left the room.  
  
For a long time after she left, Elrond sat in the silence. His mind had slipped its tether and was now floating outside of his body, watching everything from a safe distance. It was hard to believe only an hour had passed since he had awakened. After a while, he got up, urinated, and put on his robes. The idea of anyone seeing him naked now made him feel ill. He splashed his face with water and shambled onto the balcony. His joints felt hollow and stiff, as though all of his two thousand years had come home to roost at once. He moved slowly, jerkily, like a bundle of sticks that has learned to walk.  
  
He stood on the balcony and let the cool spring air dance and eddy across his face. Before him, the pristine waterfall roared and crashed, sending up a fine mist that blanketed everything and created a million dancing rainbows in front of his eyes. Farther down was the green canopy that shielded Rivendell from prying eyes. This spectacular vista soothed him, but not as much as it normally would have done. His thoughts were turned far too inward.  
  
What was he going to do? In the space of an hour, the world he had imagined to be so safe and secure was all but destroyed. There seemed to be no way around it. If he struck first, made a public confession about the incident, it might kill this dreadful conspiracy before it really got started. It might also backfire. Sithirantiel was a fine actress, and she would no doubt be able to convince some people to her point of view. He wasn't sure he could bear it if Celebrian happened to be one of them. Even if she wasn't, he would still have to face her heartbroken face when she found out that he had given himself to another woman, willingly or not. No, confession was not an option. What then? Murder? He supposed he could hire a disreputable piece of rabble from the city of Gondor. They would do the job cheaply and well, no doubt. Be that as it may, it was also not an option. He was a man of conscience, else he would not be so worried now. What then?  
  
There is yet one other possibility you have not yet considered, said a voice inside his head. It was a voice he would come to know very well over the next three thousand years, but on this day, not long before things would go from bad to abysmal, it frightened him badly as he stood in the warm sunshine. It was a cold, dispassionate voice, devoid of hope and warmth. And as he would later learn, it combined brutal honesty with demonic deception. Hearing this alien voice inside his head made his skin rise in hard little knots of cold gooseflesh, and the hair on the back of his neck gave an ominous prickle.  
  
Who are you? he asked himself. When things really fell apart, he would talk out loud to his internal companion, but for now he was still strong enough to resist that compulsion.  
  
It matters not, came the reply. You'll get to know me soon enough; I'll be staying awhile, I think. Now as I said, there is yet a third possibility you have not yet considered.  
  
What? He was cautious but not yet terrified.  
  
Suicide. You have started this mess, after all; seems only fair that you alone suffer the consequences. Rather tidy solution, really. You can avoid the whole nasty affair and watch the aftermath of your cowardice from the comfort of Valinor. It's the only way out, truth be told. The trap was well laid, and like the fly too stupid to realize its peril, you struggle in the binds that hold you. Your own fit of temper has drawn them ever tighter around you. There is no escape, save this one. Take it while you still can, or greater torment awaits you.  
  
Shut up!! The voice that had guided him through the agonizing months or Rivendell's construction and organization, the voice of logic and reason, scored one of its final victories and pushed the intruding voice away. Elrond knew it would be back, though; yes, indeed.  
  
What had the voice said? Suicide. Preposterous. It was a concept wholly foreign to the elves. He could not remember a single case of suicide in all his years, though he guessed many humans might interpret elves dying of grief in the same fashion, an idea not wholly without merit. Yet it did hold a dark magnetism for him, with its twisted logic. He would be escaping the problem, the same way an animal caught in a trap will gnaw off a limb to free itself.  
  
He imagined himself smashing the mirror above his bureau and picking out the cruelest, most jagged of the shards. After ordering a nice hot bath, he would climb in and calmly slit his wrists. He would watch the blood gush out into the water and turn it red. He wondered if the air would smell of copper as it so often did on the blood-soaked battlefields of his youth. It didn't matter. By the time the guards thought to check on him, it would be all over. Nice and neat with no embarrassment.  
  
It was an appealing image until his logical mind, the one still able to see clearly despite the growing chaos, showed him the flipside of his actions. Yes, the trapped animal escaped the cruel snare by the loss of its limb, but at what cost? It usually bled to death not long after its liberation, or, if it did not, it starved to death because it could no longer hunt. Though he would be far removed from the mayhem to follow, Celebrian certainly would not. His death would undo her. He was treated to the vision of her pretty face contorted in grief as they carried the bloody shroud containing his corpse away. She would blame herself, he knew. As the mind-numbing grief slowly overtook her, sapping her of will and life, she would be wracked with a needless guilt, forever wondering would she could have said or done to change the course of history and cursing herself for not doing more to ease his woes. No. He was not a coward, at least not that much of one. Not yet.  
  
A walk in the garden. That was what he needed. It always helped to clear his mind, put things in a new perspective. If there was a way out of this, he would come to it there. He turned and walked back to the bureau. The top drawer held his favorite cloak, the one Celebrian said made him look the most dashing. He took it out and put it on, adjusting the silver clasp in the mirror. When he was done, he took a look at himself. A bit pale and ragged, but nothing that could be chalked up to anything more than a night of overzealous drinking. That was good.  
  
His guards looked at him from the corners of their eyes as he stepped out between them, and he saw the one on the left knit his brow in confusion, sparking a myriad of paranoid thoughts in his mind. What had he heard? What had he seen?  
  
"Is there a problem?" Elrond snapped  
  
"No, sire," he responded quickly, "it's just that, well…your cloak is on backwards."  
  
Elrond looked down. "So it is," he muttered absently, and set about fixing it. "I'm sorry for my rudeness. I fear I enjoyed myself rather too much last night."  
  
"So did we all, sir." This comment earned the young sentry a sharp nudge to the ribs. His eyes widened as he realized what he had said. "That is…within…limits, uh, sir."  
  
Elrond gave a distracted chuckle and went out. The sinuous path that led to the lush gardens was sparsely populated, and the few elves that were on it sported eyes as red and distracted as his own, a fact which cheered him a little. The even fewer women along the trail hailed him happily as he passed, having the good sense to indulge in spirits little or not at all. He envied them.  
  
The gardens had existed long before Rivendell was even dreamt of in the minds of elves. It was a place borne of the earth, wild and dizzyingly beautiful. Elven legend had it that it was a gift to the elves from the Valar, a reward for protecting the trees and green things of the earth. Looking at the wild profusion growing around him, he thought that was the truth. A wide and endless variety of plants grew here, some that by all rights should wither and die, flourished. When he had first arrived here to build Rivendell, he had come here to try and count the different species that made this place there home. He lost count at three thousand and gave up.  
  
He wandered through the gardens admiring the fragile flowers until he came to a small stone bench situated beside a small, burbling brook. He sat down with a sigh and bent down to pick up a handful of damp earth. He held it to his nose and breathed deeply. The rich smell heartened him, but it did not solve the problem at hand. He let it crumble through his fingers and rested his head upon his closed fist.  
  
He hated to bring such a vile dilemma into the place where he and Celebrian shared so many happy times. He felt like he was defiling it somehow, but he also understood that this was also the place where he thought mostly clearly, and if ever there was a time he needed a clear head, it was now.  
  
The voice of logic, emboldened by its earlier victory, pleaded with him to confess everything to Celebrian. She is a fine woman. Her love for you has never wavered, and it will not now. Trust in her. It is your only hope. The voice was frantic, as though it knew already that it had lost.  
  
Of course her love has never wavered, sniggered the more sinister voice. Things have been relatively easy until now, and she is promised to the lord of the realm. Just see how long her love lasts when you tell her that you have lain with another. Her love will fade as quickly as a raindrop on burning desert sand. Mind your mouth, good sir, and mind it well. You have looked too long and too hard for this love to lose it over such an abstract thing as honor.  
  
"Ah, there you are, dear."  
  
He turned, expecting to see Sithirantiel and her malignant grin, but it was only Celebrian. Unlike him, she looked fresh and vivacious, Elbereth bless her. He got up and went her, enfolding her in a smothering embrace. "My love."  
  
She returned his embrace, then pulled away to inspect him. "Valinor, you look terrible," she said when she saw his haggard face and bruised chin.  
  
"Do I? I'm afraid I overindulged last night and am now suffering the consequences. It is nothing more than that."  
  
"Are you certain?"  
  
He had a chance to tell her then. His voice of reason was imploring him to do it, screaming for it, actually, but he didn't. Instead he said, "If I was ill, seeing your beautiful face has cured me of it."  
  
She smiled at him, then turned and picked blossom from a nearby jasmine bush and twirled it between her fingers. He offered her his arm, and she took it. Arm in arm, they headed back to Imladris. Neither one of them knew it, but Elrond's last chance to avoid near ruin had passed him by. He was now heading down a slope of deceit and horror from which he would not be able to turn for another three thousand years. 


	23. Confronting the Past III: Raising the S...

Sithirantiel paced furiously around the opulent suite with which Elrond had furnished her after acquiescing to her ultimatum like she had known he would. Her black eyes were smoldering, and her hands alternated between clenching and unclenching and rubbing incessantly against the soft fabric of her royal blue gown. This was a development she had not foreseen. She was seething, furious at herself for being so careless. One lapse, one stupid lapse, threatened to destroy the fruits of her hard-earned victory over Elrond.  
  
Six weeks had passed since the spineless little worm had collapsed under the weight of her implacable, insidious demands like a child's paper castle. Everything had been going splendidly. He had catered to her every whim, her every demand. The priceless tapestries and diamonds she asked for arrived within hours. When she had requested a more spacious, airier room, it was found and furnished that very afternoon. Even better than the material gains had been the emotional toll her constant demands and haranguing took on the dignified elf lord. Once charming and outgoing, he had become aloof and distant, often muttering to himself as he moved through the great halls of Imladris. More and more, he retreated into his private study, turning away all visitors except Celebrian.  
  
She was certain Celebrian was suffering the effects of Lord Elrond's drastic change in demeanor. It was now not uncommon to see the little wench come out of his chambers with a pinched, worried expression on her thin face. She had heard from some of the less prudent sentries that there were oftentimes raised voices issuing from the formerly tranquil abode. All of this was music to Sithirantiel's ears. Elrond was doing a fine job of destroying things for himself. He was making her job considerably easier. Before long, everything he loved would be in ruins, and her revenge would be complete. The thought almost made her smile, but then her mind returned to the grave matter at hand, and she grew serious once more.  
  
It was still hard to believe, even after a week of knowing. She nearly fainted when she heard the news. She had stared at the midwife as though she were some peculiar, alien being. Pregnant. The word was a foreign concept to her. Never, in all her planning over these long years, had this possibility entered into the picture. How could she have been so stupid? It wasn't as though she was naïve about the doings between men and women. Most Elflings understood coupling and its consequences long before they reached maturity. Sex was the most natural of all acts save birth to the elves, an act to be celebrated and rejoiced in. Though parents never deliberately made love in front of their children, there was no shame or embarrassment should the act be discovered. No, ignorance was not an excuse. She supposed the idea had never crossed her mind because she had always considered Elrond so weak and contemptible that his foul seed could neither create nor sustain a life. She had underestimated him. She gave a derisive snort at the thought and continued her fuming circuit around the room.  
  
All of this introspection is quite lovely, the dry voice that had guided her through the planning and execution of her plan spoke up, but it hardly answers the more pertinent question of what you are going to do about it.  
  
There was only one thing to do. Get rid of it. She had worked too long and too hard for the life of luxury she had at last achieved to have it all undone by some squalling, filthy, reeking little parasite that would leech the strength from her bones and the vigor from her spirit. She was meant to be pampered and catered to, not forced to be a handmaiden to some squawking, demanding, useless thing who contributed nothing to her happiness. The very thought of changing dirty swaddling or offering her breast to a thankless mouth disgusted her. She was determined that the life taking root inside her would not survive the week.  
  
But how? The snuffing out of a life was not permitted under any interpretation of elven law. Even if it had been, there was no midwife in all the elves of Arda who would consent to such a deed. New life was a precious and rare commodity among the fairest of the races. Nearly all elves could and did bring forth new life, but very few were fortunate enough to sire more than two children. Dearth of offspring seemed to be the one price the elves paid for their immortality. Every child was welcomed with blessings and song because their presence was considered a miraculous privilege. She sniffed. Sentimental fools. Privilege? Burden. One she refused to shoulder.  
  
She would have to go to the humans. They harbored no such silly sentimentality and would do anything for the right price. They cast out unwanted children like yesterday's garbage. They would have no compunction about ridding the world of this unwanted blight. A few extra coins would silence any wagging tongues. Yes, she would go to the humans. The closest settlement was in Rohan. She could be there in five days. They would take her money and scrape this child from her womb, whether by stick or draught, she knew not, but it really didn't matter. She just wanted the child gone.  
  
With a decision made at last, she stopped her frenetic pacing and moved to sit at the polished oak table. From here, the sunlight streamed through the large bay window, dappling her face with its warm rays. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to meet its touch. Insanity had not yet robbed her of all Elvish thought, and she welcomed the sun with what passed for joy in her warped soul. She let her hand drift to the large silver fruit bowl in the center of the table, her fingers closing over a bunch of cool, red grapes. The uncertainty that had plagued her all week was gone, replaced by her customary satisfied arrogance.  
  
Her plan was simple. She would tell Elrond to supply her with a horse and a pair of sentries to escort her. If she left at dawn tomorrow, she could be in Rohan before next week. An overnight stay was all she would need to recover from the procedure, and then she would return to Rivendell. She would be gone no more than twelve days, not nearly enough time for slow-witted Elrond to rediscover his masculinity and cause problems. Finding the money to finance this trek was of no concern. She would demand the sum from Elrond. If he had the temerity to ask her what it was for, she would slap his impertinent mouth. She smiled, a cold, bloodless grin that ceased the birdsong outside her window, and popped another succulent grape into her mouth.  
  
Her hand was halfway to her mouth with another grape when an unwelcome thought struck her. What if he did summon the courage to move against her while she was away? It was unlikely, but not impossible. She hadn't expected to be with child, and yet, here she was with six weeks' worth of bastard in her belly. If he decided to refuse her re-entry into the realm upon her return from her pernicious errand, there would be little she could do. The child would be long gone, no doubt washed down some riverbed to rot among the grey suds left from washing day and the reeking offal left by careless fishermen. The bruises on her face and neck from his tirade upon learning of her treachery had long since faded into memory. If she tried to accuse him from outside the walls of Rivendell, he could dismiss her charges as the ravings of a lunatic. She herself would have washed the evidence away.  
  
The momentary good humor she had been feeling imploded under a torrent of fresh rage, and she leaped to her feet with a snarl. Damn him! Even in my hour of triumph, he manages to make things difficult. She seized the heavy fruit bowl in both hands and threw it across the room. It crashed against the opposite wall with a reverberating clang, sending fruit flying in all directions. A ripe peach splattered against the wall and dribbled slowly to the floor, leaving a sticky trail of pulp in its wake.  
  
"Bastard!" she screamed as she paced once more around the room, her hands in gnarled talons. "You won't ruin this for me! You won't!"  
  
She stopped and bent down to grab the chamber pot containing her earlier bout with morning sickness. The sight and smell of it infuriated her even more, and she lobbed the pot against the door with shattering force. Shards of pottery and clots of congealed vomit flew outward like a volley of arrows, and she ducked to avoid being sprayed. A rogue shard of clay ricocheted off the ceiling and nicked her right cheek. She yelped at the sharp, stinging pain.  
  
There was a furtive rustle of movement outsider her door, but no solicitous face appeared to investigate the cause of such a fracas. The palace staff had learned quickly and painfully not to intrude upon Lady Sithirantiel, as she liked to be called, unless duly summoned. A sweet- faced chambermaid had once poked her head inside the door to ask if her Ladyship required anything before the maid retired to her chambers. She was rewarded for her solicitude by a backhanded slap that had smashed her nose and dislodged two teeth. No one else had been so unwise as to interfere with her again.  
  
She hurried to the gold-filigree, full-length mirror to survey the damage to her face. A thin scrape started just below her eye and tapered diagonally down her cheek in a pink slash. Two beads of blood oozed from the cut and dripped onto the bodice of her white dress. It was not deep and would leave no scar, but it drove her mad with fury.  
  
"You filthy little scourge!" she shrieked, battering at her stomach, "look what you made me do! You have marred my matchless beauty and robbed me of my vitality. Your father seeks to protect you by ruining my plans to erase you from this earth, but he will not succeed. If I cannot find the means to do have you die by human hands, then you shall perish by mine." She dealt her stomach another hard blow.  
  
She lunged around the room looking for anything that might serve in her quest to obliterate the fragile child developing in her womb. Her mind, long a resident on the threshold of insanity, stepped nimbly and unobtrusively over the invisible line, and Sithirantiel, now quite mad, continued muttering invective under her breath until she spotted the heavy broom handle tucked away in the corner beside the bed. Left there by some addle-brained handmaiden, no doubt. She grabbed it with eager hands. It was heavy and solid. It would do very well. She returned once more to the mirror.  
  
"You thought I wouldn't have the courage to do it, didn't you?" she raved at her belly. She gripped the handle fiercely, positioning the rounded end just below her navel. "As stupid as your father. Go back to the Valar! I desire no gift."  
  
She was just about to drive the handle deep and hard into her gut when a flicker of movement in the mirror caught her eye. She looked up, and a feral whine of fear sounded in her throat. Whatever tenuous grasp she may have retained on her sanity dwindled away, and she moaned helplessly at the mirror and the visage it held.  
  
There was her face, which should have been there, white and horrified in the smooth glass. But there was something else, something that should not have been there in any sane world. Behind her pasty reflection stood her father, twenty years dead. He smiled his hard, sardonic smile at her, revealing black, fetid teeth. An arrow, the arrow that had killed him, was lodged in his throat. His hair hung off of his scalp like clotted blood.  
  
"Hello, daughter," he said in a cold, grating voice, and a thin streamer of viscous black blood drooled from the hole in his throat.  
  
She whirled around to face her father's ghost, but no one was there. The room was exactly as had been a few moments before. She was alone. She turned back to the mirror, unable to feel her body from the knees down. Her father was there, still grinning his implacable grin.  
  
"Adar?" she squeaked. Urine ran down her leg in a warm, pungent stream.  
  
"You don't seem happy to see me, daughter," he mused, and folded his arms across his chest.  
  
"You're dead." The tear in the fabric of her reality widened.  
  
"As astute as ever, I see," he snapped in the bellicose voice that had so often belittled her as a child.  
  
"You cannot be here. You're dead." She was hyperventilating now.  
  
"I told you when I died that I would never leave you, and now I have come to watch your destruction," he said gleefully.  
  
"No," she whimpered, and curled into a protective ball. Her nose stung with the stench of urine, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the specter to go away. All of her life, she had lived in abject terror of him. Only his death had released her from the ever-present fear, and now he was back, back from the grave to make her pay for the things she had done. It wasn't fair.  
  
"I'm not going to go away, so get up," he snarled. "If you don't, I have ways of making you obey. You remember them, don't you?" His voice was a mocking purr.  
  
Then she heard a sound that had held sway in her nightmares in the years since her father's death. A low, sharp whickering sound, the sound of oiled leather whipping through the air. She screamed as the tridentine strap cracked against the smooth stone floor. This was impossible. Her father was not here; he was moldering in his tomb, but she heard it all the same. It was the sound of the whip that never failed to lash against the tender skin of her back, buttocks, or legs when she had displeased him.  
  
"Adar, please," she sniveled.  
  
"Then get up." His voice was harsh.  
  
She sprang to her feet in an ecstasy of terror. She would do anything not to hear that gut-wrenching sound again. "W-what do you want?"  
  
The figure in the mirror raised an eyebrow. "Want? I told you I don't want anything. I'm just here to watch you destroy yourself." Another malevolent smile crossed his lips.  
  
"I don't know what you mean. I have everything under control," she said, her hands tugging nervously at her gown.  
  
Her father snorted. "Is that what you call this?" He gestured around the decimated room with a pale, bony hand. You're stupider than I first believed. Mayhap I should have used the lash more liberally with you."  
  
"As I remember, you used it none too sparingly as it was, you bastard. Any more and you would have flayed me alive," she snapped. She blanched and retreated a step when she realized what she had said.  
  
"Little good it did. You're still as worthless as ever. I should have lashed the life from your body and saved my own. Would that I had been smart enough to use the broomstick on you." The lash flicked suggestively back and forth across his forearm like the tail of a curious cat.  
  
"I was the best thing to ever come from you," she said, still wise enough in spite of her insanity to keep out of range of his ominous lash.  
  
"If you are the pinnacle of my legacy, it would have been better for me to leave none at all. Useless imbecile! Too foolish to see that you hold the key to your success in your hands. You always were selfish and impetuous. Did you really think your silly little plan would work? You were far too ambitious this time, you base little wench, and I shall very much enjoy watching your ruin." He tilted his head back and laughed. It was the same derisive laugh he had always used to make her feel small and stupid. It had lost none of its potency with the passing of years.  
  
"I hate you!" she screamed, and brought the broom handle crashing down into the mirror. The malignant visage of her dead father prismed for a moment before disintegrating amid the cheerful tinkle of shattering glass. She brought the handle down over and over again, grunting with effort. She wanted to obliterate him. She would make sure he never came back again.  
  
When she had exhausted herself, she flopped down onto the floor, squashing a banana beneath her buttocks. She was trembling and bleeding from a dozen different cuts on her forearms, but she was exhilarated. I showed him, she thought, oh yes, I did. She began to giggle, softly at first, then with more intensity. Soon she was yodeling laughter, rocking back and forth and clapping her sweaty hands.  
  
He was right about one thing, though, she thought as the laughing fit began to wane. She couldn't deny that, no matter how much she wished she could. She had been stupid not to see the priceless weapon she now held inside her body. Inconvenient though it was, the little bastard incubating in her womb was worth more alive than dead. Whether he believed the child was his or not, Elrond would never allow any harm to come to it. His pathetic conscience and overdeveloped sense of honor would demand that he do everything in his power to protect it. The strong shielding the weak. The altruistic moron would capitulate to anything for the good of the child. It could spend its life imprisoned in the wardrobe closet for all she cared. She would bring it before Elrond once a week to assure him that it yet lived, and then back in the wardrobe it would go. She could keep Elrond under her thumb for millennia. She couldn't wait to see his face when he found out about the result of their little liaison.  
  
She got up and went to the door. "Handmaiden!" she called out, flinging open the door.  
  
A white-faced young girl materialized before her. The young courtesan had heard every bit of the tempest going on in the room and had fervently hoped that the shifts would change before the Lady decided to summon anyone. Now, seeing the disheveled, bug-eyed harridan standing in the doorway, covered in blood, fruit pulp, and vomit, she begged for a hole to open up beneath her feet and swallow her up.  
  
"Yes, Your Ladyship?" she quavered, curtseying on wobbly knees.  
  
"Yes Your Ladyship," Sithirantiel mimicked with a sneer. "Get your worthless hide in there and clean up that mess! The job better be done by the time I get back, or you'll not be able to sit down for a week."  
  
"Yes, Your Ladyship," said the girl. She stepped inside the room and gasped at what she saw.  
  
Sithirantiel gave her a vigorous kick to the buttocks, sending her sprawling face first into the vomit and fruit pulp. "Enough gawking, you clumsy girl! Get to work!"  
  
She stalked down the corridor toward Elrond's private enclave, oblivious to the stares and the wide berth afforded her by other elves. Her fevered, sinister mind was too busy conjuring up the expression on Elrond's face when he heard the news. I have you now, you traitorous fool. You'll pay for your moment of carelessness for the rest of your life. The thought brought a tight-lipped smile to her lips. She quickened her pace.  
  
She burst into his private chambers to find him in conference with a pair of advisors. Celebrian was sitting at his side, hand resting on his knee. The look of stupefied confusion on their faces as she entered filled her with savage amusement.  
  
"Lord Elrond, I need to speak with you bat once," she said, a smirk spreading over her face like a shadow moving to blot out the sun.  
  
"Can you not see that we are in the middle of a very important-," began a counselor.  
  
"I do not recall asking your input on the matter," she snapped. "I believe I was addressing Lord Elrond."  
  
The counselor lapsed into silence while the other shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Elrond cleared his throat.  
  
"Gentlemen, we will take up this matter at another time," he said, rising from his chair.  
  
The counselors rose to take their leave, but Celebrian remained where she was. "My lord, if it please you, I would like to stay," she said quietly. She was looking at the frazzled Sithirantiel with an expression of acute disdain.  
  
"Oh yes, what a splendid idea," Sithirantiel cooed, turning her crocodile smile to the other woman. "I'm certain you'll find it most enlightening." From the corner of her eye, she saw Elrond blanch to the color of whipped whey.  
  
"Oh no, dear, I'd rather you didn't. You'd be bored to tears by these humdrum matters, I assure you. Why don't you go take a stroll in the gardens? I'll join you for dinner later," he said hurriedly, pulling her gently to her feet.  
  
"I really much prefer to stay. Perhaps I can be of help. That is, if no one objects," Celebrian insisted.  
  
"Oh no, I don't mind at all. Only a woman could understand that which plagues me," said Sithirantiel, black eyes round and innocent.  
  
"Then it's settled, then," said Celebrian, moving to take her seat again.  
  
"It most certainly is NOT settled," he barked, panic and frustration getting the better of him. "In case you've forgotten, I am still lord of this realm, and you are not yet its lady. Now do as I say and go. Why must you be forever at my heels?"  
  
The effect his words had on Celebrian could not have been worse if he had reached out and slapped her. Her face fell and her shoulders pulled back until she looked like a shoulder standing at attention. Her eyes were shining with anger and bewilderment.  
  
"As you wish, my lord," she said, giving him a stiff curtsy before retreating from the room with the frowning counselors in tow.  
  
"Always cool when chaos reigns, I see," said Sithirantiel when they were gone.  
  
"What is it that you want?" said Elrond wearily. "I am in no mood for your petulant demands today." He kneaded his temples with his fingers, trying to stave off the gnawing headache he felt building behind them.  
  
"Your mood is of no consequence to me," she said airily. "Besides, I come today not to make demands, but to give you a gift."  
  
He brought his head up quickly enough to make the tendons in his neck creak. "A gift?" he said suspiciously. He didn't want a gift of any sort from the likes of her, especially not when she looked so terrible. Her hair sat in greasy clots atop her head, and her gown sat twisted and wrinkled on her frame. There was a smudge of blood on her skirt and a smear of vomit over her left breast. Several shallow scrapes adorned her forearms. Maybe she had the mercy to try and put an end to herself, he thought, then dismissed the notion as too much to hope for.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asked in spite of himself.  
  
"Never better. I just had an unexpected meeting with an old friend." She tittered at this revelation, and Elrond's heart gave an uneasy lurch. Something had clearly unsettled her mind. "Sit down," she said, gesturing vaguely at his chair.  
  
"I'll stand, thank you," he said, nettled. She may have him under her thumb for the time being, but he wasn't going to be ordered around his own chambers.  
  
"Suit yourself," she said placidly. She looked at him, wanting to watch him squirm a bit longer. Then she said, "I am with child."  
  
He sat. "Impossible," he said, steepling his fingers in front of his suddenly cold face. He took a shaky, deep breath, willing himself not to faint.  
  
"Oh? If you doubt me, ask the midwife. Do you remember taking precautions to prevent the coming of a child that night? No, I thought not."  
  
He said nothing. What could he say? He risked a furtive glance at her stomach. Sure enough, there was a slight swelling there, a swelling that could only mean one thing. He moaned softly into his hands. "Oh, Elbereth. What do you intend to do?"  
  
"I had it in my mind to go to Rohan and find an old crone to do away with it discreetly," she said, intending no such thing but wanting to see his reaction.  
  
"Out of the question," he said, sitting bolt upright behind his desk. "An innocent life shall not be destroyed, no matter what the circumstances of its conception."  
  
"Such sentimental drivel," she laughed. "So you will claim it then?"  
  
He fell silent. To claim the child would be to publicly admit his paternity. Celebrian would be disgraced, and his own reputation in shambles. Tongues would begin to wag, and his credibility would be undermined. His conscience screamed at him to do the right thing, but on this day, his cowardice was stronger. "We could send it away," he offered.  
  
"Afraid to face consequences, m'lord?" she jeered. "I hardly think so. I have an idea of my own. I'll keep the child quiet and safe from harm so long as you do as I say. If you even consider refusing me, I'll bring forth the child. After it serves its purpose of ruining you, I'll break its neck and toss it to the vultures." To prove her point, she gave her stomach a brisk slap.  
  
Elrond scrambled over the top of his desk and grabbed her hands, wrenching them violently away from her abdomen. "Do not harm that child," he hissed, nose wrinkling as the strong smell of urine struck his nose. He was seized by an overwhelming desire to break her murderous wrists.  
  
"You're hurting me," she grunted through gritted teeth.  
  
The commotion had attracted the two sentries posted to his door, who stood in the threshold watching their lord with sinking trepidation. Gone was the gentle sovereign that had guided them through the first uncertain years after Sauron's fall, and in his stead was a frightening madman gripping the delicate wrists of a Lady.  
  
"Sir, is everything alright?" ventured one, a note of disapproval in his voice.  
  
Elrond dropped his hands and moved away, a guilty flush creeping into his face. Elbereth knew how this must look. They were staring at him as though they didn't recognize him. Maybe they didn't. He didn't recognize himself anymore. I'm losing myself, he thought. It is as though someone else has crawled inside my skin. I am but a helpless spectator now. The thought chilled him, and he gave an involuntary shudder.  
  
"I assure you all is well," he said, straightening up and putting his hands behind his back. He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.  
  
The sentries looked wholly unconvinced. Their eyes darted between Elrond and Sithirantiel, who sat rubbing her chafed wrists. The halberds they held in their left hands clinked nervously, and they shuffled from foot to foot, as though waiting for something. Then Elrond realized that they were waiting for something. They were surreptitiously glancing at Sithirantiel, waiting for her to refute his assertion that all was as it should be. Their doubt wounded and angered him. Did they truly think him such a monster? Had he really changed so much over the past six weeks? If so, things were far worse than he had imagined.  
  
"If I need anything, you will be summoned forthwith," he said, an unmistakable note of irritation in his voice. "Dismissed."  
  
The pair lingered a moment longer, reluctant to leave. He wondered what he was going to do if they refused to obey his command. He wasn't about to lay unkind hands on them; that would only reinforce the notion that he had been corrupted by his power. That left him with few options. He supposed he could summon more guards to remove the first, but what if they refused to act? Then he would be faced with four disobedient, disapproving pairs of eyes instead of just two. He sighed. Sithirantiel had managed to complicate even the most mundane of matters.  
  
Just as he was about to say something else, the sentries bowed and took their leave, though it was obvious from their slow departure that they still entertained grave misgivings about the situation. Sithirantiel opened her mouth, no doubt preparing to offer up another acid jibe about his moral ineptitude, but it never came. Instead, she froze eyes locked on something over his shoulder. Her chest began to hitch, and her hands flew to her face, long nails harrowing her face and leaving behind ugly red weals.  
  
Elrond spun around, expecting to see a crazed, knife-wielding assassin looming behind him, but there was no one. The only occupants of the space behind him were his heavy, three-tiered bookshelf and a small silver wall mirror that Celebrian had gifted to him on his birthday the year past. He scanned the thin shadows in search of anything that could possibly merit such a reaction. Aside from the shifting mountains of dust that had piled up since he stopped allowing most people inside, there was nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
Sithirantiel let out a howling wail of terror, prompting Elrond to return his attention to her. She sat in the chair, body rigid, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath her eyes. Her eyes were fixed on the wall mirror behind his head. What is wrong with her? What does she see? he thought. His heart was racing in his chest. Then came a less serious but no less distressing thought. This will surely bring my two great admirers in here on the run.  
  
Indeed, the door exploded open, and the two sentries rushed in, halberds raised. It was clear from their posture that they expected to see their king engaged in the sordid business of murdering the helpless damsel in his chambers. He had to quash a violent bray of laughter when they skidded to a halt, heads cocked in comic perplexity as they took in the screaming figure hunched in the chair in front of his desk. She was pulling her hair out in fine tufts.  
  
"What has come over her, sire?" said one, slowly lowering his upraised halberd.  
  
"I do not know," he answered truthfully. "She was seized by a sudden fit of madness as we spoke."  
  
"Plague me no more!" she screamed at the mirror. She jumped up and laid hold of a wooden dove sculpture sitting on his desk. "Damn you to Mordor!" she bellowed, and launched it at the mirror, shattering it into untold pieces. Elrond ducked, shielding his head from a fullisade of jagged, crystalline shards.  
  
"I got him, I got him," she muttered softly to herself, her eyes dazed and uncomprehending. She began to titter to herself, a strained brittle sound in the otherwise silent room.  
  
"Guards, please escort Lady Sithirantiel to her room. It is clear she is not well. I will be up to see to her shortly," he said.  
  
"Yes, m'lord," they answered, snapping their heels together. They moved to either side of the chair in which Sithirantiel sat and grabbed her gently beneath the elbows. "Come, Your Ladyship, let us take you to rest," they whispered, pulling her to her feet.  
  
"I got him," she said conversationally to the guards as they escorted her from the room.  
  
"Indeed you did," answered one, as though her statement made perfect sense, and Elrond sent him a silent blessing.  
  
When they had gone, he sank down into the chair behind his desk and rested his head on his hands. Now that everyone was gone, the full impact of what Sithirantiel had told him was crashing down on him. He rubbed absently at his face with his hands.  
  
"Elbereth, what I am going to do?" he asked the empty room.  
  
You don't have do anything, said the voice of reason inside his head. She's quite mad. Anyone can see that. Even if she does tell, no one will believe her now. The child she carries may not even be yours.  
  
The voice offered false hope, and he dared not take it. The child was his. No amount of well-meaning denial would change that. If Sithirantiel had had another lover, she would have been parading him about by now, preening in cocksure triumph. She would no longer have had cause to torment him. The fact that she still exerted so much time and energy to make his life miserable dispelled any hope that the child belonged to another.  
  
Well, at least no one will believe her accusations now, consoled the voice.  
  
Ah, but what if they do? laughed the other voice that had so recently taken up residence inside his head. What if she tells everyone that your base cruelty drove her mad? That your callous rejection of the child she carried and your ill treatment of her made her the way she is? More people than you think will believe her. Your erratic behavior as of late has ensured that. The reaction of your own sentries earlier today proves that. Your people are beginning to fear you. And what if it is true? What if you did drive her mad? She has always been cruel, yes, but never mad. Not until you took her to bed, anyway.  
  
What if she isn't even with child? countered his logical voice in desperation.  
  
If you doubt, an answer is simple enough to come by. Ask the midwife.  
  
Yes, he would do that. Sithirantiel herself had said he should. His eye fell on the decanter of mallorn wine on the table in the far corner of the room, and he was tempted to take a drink to steady his nerves. He decided against it. Wine had gotten him into enough trouble already. If the midwife confirmed the dark suspicions in his mind, he would come back here a drink. A big one.  
  
He left his chambers, surprised to see that his two sentries had not yet returned. He hoped Sithirantiel had not done them any harm. If they had not returned by the time he finished with the midwife, he would go in search of them. His heart sank to see Celebrian waiting for him down the corridor. Not now. Please not now.  
  
"Elrond, we need to talk," she said, grabbing his arm as he passed.  
  
"Celebrian, please, not now," he said, pulling away from her.  
  
"Yes, now," she insisted. "Why do you ignore me?"  
  
He turned to face her. "I do not ignore you. I am simply very busy."  
  
"Never before have you been so busy, not even when you were obsessed with building Rivendell. What ails you?"  
  
"Nothing ails me, nothing I wish to discuss with you, at any rate. Not now."  
  
"Elrond, please do not hide yourself from me," she pleaded, looking into his eyes.  
  
"Where is it written that I must bare every secret corner of my soul to you? Leave me be. I have things to do," he snapped, instantly mortified with himself. "Celebrian, dear, I'm sorry. Meet me for dinner. We'll discuss it then."  
  
"There will be no dinner tonight, nor for many nights to come, I think," she said stiffly. For the first time there was real anger in her voice, and if frightened him badly. It made him realize just how much Sithirantiel had affected him.  
  
Before he could stammer out an apology, she turned and walked away, rapidly disappearing from view. You're pushing her away, you arrogant fool, crowed the malignant voice inside his head. Soon she will take her leave of you. How much more baseless anger do you think she will take from you before she hardens her heart? Less than you dare hope, I assure you. He pushed the voice away. It made him afraid because he knew it was telling the truth, a truth he did not wish to hear.  
  
By the time he arrived at the midwife's parlor on the lowermost floor, he was seething with bitter remorse for his harsh words to Celebrian and hatred for the unsettling voice in his head.  
  
"Why, hello, my lord," greeted the midwife when he entered. "Quite a surprise to see you here." She washed bloody linens as she talked. There had been a birth the hour before.  
  
"Good afternoon, midwife," said Elrond, noting with quiet dismay that the new mother still lay sleeping on a pallet near the window. "A new citizen for Rivendell, I see."  
  
The midwife laughed. "Yes, m'lord. A fine boy-child, born a little over an hour ago. The mother's first. A strapping lad, he was. Nearly eight pounds."  
  
"Is the mother well?"  
  
"Oh yes. Just exhausted. Her labor was quite intense. Eighteen hours. If you've come to assist, I'm afraid you're a bit late.  
  
"Where is the child?" He craned his neck to search for the telltale bundle of swaddling.  
  
"The proud father absconded with him not long ago. No doubt showing the little fellow off to all his friends. He'll catch quite the tongue lashing when he gets back."  
  
"No doubt," agreed Elrond with a wry smile.  
  
"But that isn't what you came down here for, is it?" she asked shrewdly.  
  
"No, it isn't. Actually I have come to ask about Sithirantiel." He tried to sound casual, but the words sounded strange and forced in his ears. This was dangerous territory. "Has she come to you?"  
  
The midwife's eyes narrowed. "Yes. She asked to be examined."  
  
"And?"  
  
"She is with child."  
  
"Has she said who the father is?" His hands were balled into tight fists behind his back.  
  
The midwife, who knew of only one reason a man would ask such questions, did not answer right away. She looked at Elrond with her ice blue eyes, taking in his pallor, his disheveled hair, his gaunt face, and his hollow eyes. This was a haunted man, and she thought she knew why.  
  
"No," she finally answered.  
  
Elrond turned to leave. The midwife caught him by the arm. He looked at her in weary inquiry.  
  
"Sire, this conversation bears no memory for me," she said gently.  
  
He gave her a small smile. "For that I am grateful."  
  
He took his leave, and the midwife returned to her work. Once out of sight, Elrond sank heavily against the door. So it was true then. The invisible snare around his neck tightened a little more. He suddenly felt very claustrophobic, as though the very walls he stood between were collapsing in on him. He muttered a prayer for forgiveness under his breath and headed back to his chambers for the bottomless drink he had promised himself. He had never needed anything so badly in his life. 


	24. Confronting the Past IV: And the Wages ...

Elrond sat in his chambers before a roaring hearth, a wrinkled parchment lying limply in one hand. The other kneaded restlessly at his forehead. He knew he should be concentrating on the matters of running his realm, not the least of which was the mithril contract he now held, but try as he might, he could not bring himself to do it. The muffled noises seeping through his thick chamber wall, the noises that heralded his undoing, were too demanding, too insistent, to ignore. Noises? He was being kind. Shrieks, that was what they were, carried down the narrow passageway. He resisted the impulse to stop his ears. The parchment jittered softly in his grasp. Even from this great distance, the wails and screams coming from the midwife's chambers were piercing; he could not imagine what they must be like, what they must sound like, to the midwife's diligent ears.  
  
The five and a half months between Sithirantiel's revelation of her pregnancy and now had passed in a haze of constant, swooning terror for him. Oh, he went about his daily appointed rounds, talking with his trusted counselors and even smiling at passersby upon occasion, but in the dark recesses of his mind, a mind once so wise and cunning, now worn by constant fear and unabating guilt, the silent shadow of Sithirantiel's pronouncement skulked like a thief in the night. Day by day, he had watched her stomach swell with the dark secret it held, and the ever- rounding belly had seemed to mock him, leering derisively at him as he took his evening meal. Her oval belly button became a great unblinking eye, triumphant in its cold, unrepentant hatred. I see you, it said each time he examined her with trembling hands. I see you and despise you. I hold the key to your destruction, and I shall seek it out with all my strength. By the time her condition had become obvious and tongues began to wag, his hands shook so treacherously that he no longer trusted himself to sup with his courtiers. Instead, he ate in the empty sanctuary of his chambers, sometimes accompanied by Celebrian, but more often than not alone.  
  
The tongues were wagging, make no mistake. The exact nature of their speculation was unknown-even at this late date, he was not about to go slinking around chamber doors and creeping around bower corridors to find out, but he was still shrewd enough to guess at its general bent. He was not blind to the curious glances thrown Sithirantiel's way as she waddled past, pale and haggard, nor was he deaf to the subtle chatterings on garden pathways or in dimly-lit corridors. Sithirantiel's miraculous conception was on every citizen's lips.  
  
It was not the pregnancy itself that was such cause for debate. It was the conspicuous absence of a father that had fueled imaginations. Male elves, married or otherwise, were quick to acknowledge paternity. It was a badge of honor. A child was proof of virility, a sign of prosperity and favor from the Valar. Yet no male had come forward to claim the child that until this night had made its home inside of her pasty, vacant-eyed frame. Some of the braver souls assayed that maybe the poor mite was the result of an insidious orc attack, or maybe she had been waylaid by an uncouth man from Gondor. The general consensus, though, was that the cunning and haughty young Sithirantiel had found herself a secret lover, one too shy or too joined to speak to the child. No one, not even the wisest of the wise, had ventured to guess that the burden she carried was ill-gotten, taken by deceit from the loins of their oh so just ruler in the dead of an accursed night. For that at least, he was glad.  
  
He stood with a sigh and let the parchment flutter noiselessly to the floor. Well, all their idle musings would be answered soon enough. Sithirantiel had gone into labor just after dusk, and now in the wee hours of the morning, with the sun still hours from peeking its head above the horizon, her agonies were at their peak. Another tortured wail from the birthing room confirmed the fact as he moved thoughtfully to the elegant armoire in the corner in search of something to drink. He was ashamed to admit it, but hearing her shrieks and screams as she struggled to bring forth the life within her made him glad, almost happy. She deserved it after what she had done to him. He hoped the child she so loathed tortured her all it was able before it drew its first breath. A hideous, grimacing parody of a smile wrenched his lips at the thought. Had anyone been in the room with him at that moment, they would have been hard-pressed to stifle a shout of surprised horror at the sight of him. He looked mad.  
  
His shaking hand hovered indecisively over the numerous crystal spires perched atop the armoire. Most contained spirits of some kind, ale or mallorn wine, but a few held more mundane fare-water or melon juice. He longed for a drink, his every nerve ending clamored for it, sending shivers of need through his muscles like a cramp. Already he could taste the fiery tang of mallorn wine on his tongue, could feel it washing over his teeth and gums and tumbling down his parched throat to coat his roiling stomach. His fingers hesitated, twitching longingly above the point of a decanter of a rich, midnight mallorn wine.  
  
Since when have you become a slave to this bewitching demon brew? asked his reason, a voice that was too often lost amidst the gibberings and acerbic insinuations of his guilt, that insipid, jeering, wheedling voice that stole peace from his dreams. Has she so thoroughly defeated you, then? Broken your spirit, your will, until you are nothing but a trembling dotard leaning against the crutch of sweet, poison ale?  
  
No. She had not. He drew his hand away from the ale with a wince of self-disgust, and chose instead the bottle holding melon juice. He poured himself a goblet, taking care not to slosh the pale yellow liquid onto the armoire top. He replaced the stopper in the decanter and took a drink, long and deep. The drink was sweet and cold. It moistened his sandpaper tongue, but did nothing to quell the mutinous, greasy grumblings of his stomach.  
  
He returned to his fireside seat, sitting heavily on its edge, the goblet clasped loosely in his hands, the stem dangling freely between his slightly parted knees. Far away, there was another piercing cry from Sithirantiel as she grappled with yet another contraction, and he started a little, alarmed by its intensity. From the sound of things, he would very likely be called in to assist the midwife before the end. He was glad he had been strong enough to resist the siren song of the ale. If he were going to be helping in a birth, he would need quick reflexes and quicker wits. There would be no room for fumbling fingers and a muddled mind.  
  
A disturbing thought occurred to him then, one from which he instinctively recoiled. Could he, if it came to it, bring himself to aid in the delivery of his own doom? If the midwife called to him, would he be able to lead his reluctant feet down the claustrophobic hallway to the private cloister of the midwife's room? If need be, could he make his unsteady hands toil to guide the innocent bearer of his torment into the light of Arda? The question was huge, daunting, and the fact that he could not give his unquiet conscience a definitive answer troubled him greatly. How had his much-vaunted honor crumbled into dust so quickly, so effortlessly?  
  
Can you do it, m'lord? The relentless voice of self-doubt was back, shrill and cutting. Can you really bring yourself to crouch betwixt Sithirantiel's splayed, sweat-slick legs as she groans, staring at you with her hateful, lunatic eyes as she delivers a child neither of you truly wants, but whom she will use as the cruelest of weapons to buy your acquiescence? Do you really think you can? You are hard-pressed to stay your hand from the fine spirits of your table. And even if you could somehow curry your dwindling will and usher your tiny bane from the dark world of the womb into the light and warmth of most treasured life, could you resist the urge to hurl the wet, shivering, defenseless life in your hands to the floor and dash its brains against the unyielding stone? Could you? Maybe once, long ago. But no more. No more.  
  
To his horror, he could see himself doing just that. It played out crystal clearly before the unflinching eye of his mind. He saw himself staring intently down at the squalling, squirming child in his arms, staring at it with eyes as hot as burning coals and as dull as those found in the murals that decorated his halls. He saw himself raising the child up, as though he were about to offer the traditional benediction and welcome into elven society. But instead of holding the infant outward toward the sun in gentle, loving hands, its bright, surprised eyes level with his own, he saw himself lifting it high above his head, his stiff fingers digging into its soft flesh until it howled in pain. He saw the midwife's wide, shocked eyes as she shot out a mortified hand, too late to stop him. He heard her anguished scream mingled with the sharp keenings of the babe, and as he sat frozen in his chair, willing the terrible image away, he saw himself bring his arms down in a brutal, swooping arc. There was a cracking sound like a clay pot shattering, and an alarming spray of red and pinkish grey across the floor. The child wept no more.  
  
The vision was so hellishly vivid that he clamped his eyes shut against it, the goblet in his hands tinkling and shuddering dangerously. He let out a desperate cry, jerking the cup up to his lips for a steadying draught. He shook so violently that more than half of the contents sloshed onto his chest. He did not notice.  
  
"I would never do such a foul deed!" he exclaimed to the empty room. After seven months of unmitigated hell, talking aloud to himself no longer seemed strange to him.  
  
Ah, but are you so sure of that? prodded the voice in a sly whisper. After all, just seven months ago, you never would have believed yourself capable of deceiving Celebrian and denying paternity of a child, no matter the circumstances of its beginnings, yet you have done both. How can you be so certain that you will not take the next sliding step down this most precipitous of slopes? You are not who you were, and never will be again.  
  
"I am doing what I must to protect my dearest Celebrian from the shame and humiliation my sins would bring her if brought to light." His voice was tight and trembling, the voice of a man exhausted from battle but unable to flee from it.  
  
Are you now? mused his internal interrogator. How very noble of you! I'm sure she would be pleased to learn that she has trothed herself to such a martyr! Do you take me for a fool? For her! Ha! Let us not deceive ourselves. All of this secrecy, all of this deception has been for you, not for her. You would rather die than see your glorious reputation tarnished by such scandal. You cannot lie to me…or to yourself.  
  
"Be quiet! Give me peace!" he shouted. The goblet wobbled jerkily to his lips again. He was squeezing it so tightly that the gold chalice was buckling under the pressure. When he woke up the next morning, he would find that his hand was so stiff that the joints creaked with every movement, but for now he did not see this, did not feel it. He no longer remembered what he was drinking. All of his attention was concentrated on the vicious, unforgiving crier inside his head. How he loathed it! Always baiting him, deriding him, mocking his frailties and failings. More than once he had been tempted to bash his troubled head against the wall until his skull cracked like a rotten egg just to still the ceaseless ridicule.  
  
All right. Finally weary of discussing yourself? That is a refreshing happenstance. What then, shall we discuss, hm? Ah, yes, I know. A matter of the utmost gravity. The child. Because whether you wish or no, the child is coming. It is a reality you cannot avoid. What will you do with it once it arrives? It most certainly cannot be sent back into the shadowy netherworld from whence it came. What will you do with the wages of your sin? The voice was toying with him the way a frisky cat toys with a frightened, exhausted, bloody mouse. There was no need for haste or delicacy. Its prey could not flee, nor could he plead for help. No one else could see the ruthless swath it cut across his mind. It wrought its cruelty with complete impunity.  
  
Elrond leaned back in his chair, the cool, mostly empty goblet resting lightly against his knee. He took a deep breath and forced his jaw, which throbbed with crushing tension, to relax. That was one question to which he had an answer. He knew beyond doubt that the child could not remain in Rivendell. It would be too dangerous for everyone involved, not least of all the child. Sithirantiel had made it abundantly clear that she would not hesitate to harm the child, and he had no reason at all to doubt her.  
  
And just how do you intend to wrest the babe from her arms? She will not surrender it willingly. It is unlikely she will leave it within arm's reach of you so long as it lives. You'll never even set eyes upon the pitiable creature except for the weekly visits to prove that it is still among the living. Only when she has wrung every bit of use from its bones and leached from you your sour capitulation like the last drops of sap from a withering maple will she relinquish her reluctant charge, and when she does, it will be no more than a dried-out husk of flesh and bone, a hollow carcass crumpled at your feet, the sordid spoils of her little war.  
  
He shuddered involuntarily against the ruthless images crowding his mind, unwilling to look into the hollow, dead eyes of the doomed child his stupidity had conceived. He would not let it come to that. He would get the child away somehow. Perhaps while she slept after her labor, the midwife could spirit the child away and care for it until he decided what to do. Getting it out of Rivendell was going to be difficult. If he sent out the word that there was a child to be adopted in his realm, there would be interest. There would also be questions-too many of them. No, the infant's departure must be kept secret.  
  
He felt a wave of pity for the child beginning its innocent life just a few doors away. It had done nothing, and yet it was fraught with so much guilt and tragedy. Its life could have no good end. If it remained here in Rivendell, it would be treated like a dirty secret, shunned and secreted from the world without ever knowing why. If it survived and was sent away, it would be subject to the often cruel vagaries of life. Instead of growing up within the pampered confines of the royal court, it could very well end up as a poor peasant barely eking out a life in the far corners of the world. If a human took it in, it may well suffer a fate not fit to contemplate.  
  
These compassionate thoughts did little to change his mind, however. It was still firmly fixed to the notion that the little creature not remain here. Even if Sithirantiel were not such a pernicious, spiteful wench, he would not dare allow the child to live here. The risk was too great that his secret would be discovered, innocently or otherwise. Sithirantiel could very well break her vow of silence; in fact, she probably would. In a fit of anger, she would blurt everything out and bring him to ruin. Worse yet, what if someone should notice that the child bore a striking resemblance to the great elven king and began to spread the silent but potent rumor that His Lordship had sired a bastard with a voluptuous courtesan? What if that someone was Celebrian? What if she saw the child and pieced together the truth from the half-truths of local gossip and his own furtive, churlish mien? What would she think when she beheld a tiny face full of dark chocolate eyes, a sharp, angular chin, and severe cheekbones? When she saw the flowing mahogany river of the child's hair as it tumbled, wild and uncombed, over its emaciated, sunken frame? Could he bear to see the terrible knowledge welling up in her eyes, a dark and paralyzing flood of unspeakable anguish? He drained the last dregs of melon juice from the goblet and set it on the floor. Then he rubbed his bruised hands over his face, as though he were trying to scrub away the subtle tinge of guilt that had been branded upon it since the night of the festival.  
  
"I just want to make things the way they were," he beseeched the empty room.  
  
Do you really believe that by casting this child away like a bit of scrap, things will be as they were? If only it were so. You can neither reverse time, nor change what is to be. This child will forever be a part of you, a scar from a wound you dearly wish to forget. Send it to the ends of the earth if you will. It will still haunt your every step. On the happiest day of your life, you will hear its cries, feel its warm weight in your hands, and weep. It will never leave you. It may be gone, but never will it be forgotten. If you do this, you have dreamt your last sweet dream. Better for you to salvage what little honor you can and save yourself and your child from this hell you have created. Heed my words before it is too late.  
  
For the first and only time in its existence, the voice spoke to him with a note of compassion, and the earnestness he heard there almost gave him pause. But he was a stubborn man, a trait his firstborn would inherit in spades; he pushed the uncharacteristic plea aside. He could not afford to give in to such sentimentality. Sometimes things were hard, unspeakably hard, without rhyme or reason. This was one of those times. It was a hard lesson, but a true one, he thought. The child must go. The voice, perhaps realizing the futility of further argument, fell silent. It never offered anything other than biting derision ever again, and alone in his room, Elrond slipped a little further down that invisible slope.  
  
While Elrond wrestled a losing battle against his fears, Sithirantiel lay furious and exhausted in a room just down the hall, her legs splayed and sweating. She was naked, and her hair hung in sweaty, greasy clumps on her head. For untold hours now, she had lain in this empty, cavernous room with the midwife crouching between her legs like one investigating a hidden recess in search of treasure. The pain was constant and enormous, a vise against her back and entrails, squeezing until she thought she would go mad from the pain. Just when she thought she could stand no more, it tapered off, only to be replaced by another spasm worse than the first.  
  
"Get this thing out of me," she howled at the hawk-nosed woman keeping her tireless vigil between her thighs, but the woman only scowled at her for a moment before resuming her watch.  
  
Probably never had a whelp of her own, by the looks of her. No man would get near enough, she thought savagely.  
  
Before she could glean any amusement from her wit, another contraction tore through her, making her grip and claw at the bedclothes in agony. It lanced through her belly, a brutal, jagged pain like shards of glass slicing through her innards, and she cried out. It was a cry of rage as well as fury, for already she hated this child that was using her body as a conduit into this world. She was going to enjoy punishing it for what it was making her endure now on its behalf.  
  
The pain from the contraction passed, and in the few seconds before the next hit, she had time to focus her mind on the one thing she was sure would carry her through this miserable business of labor-her unadulterated hatred for Elrond. It stood out in her mind, a piercing, blinding beacon that sliced through the red haze of pain that had laid siege to her mind. She saw that beacon and latched onto it, a tick fastening onto a favorite host. Her seesawing mind steadied.  
  
How she despised him! He, with his façade of nobility, he whom all of Rivendell adored, he who deep in his heart had believed himself to be beyond reproach. He had dangled before her all that she desired-power, glory, riches-and then snatched it all away like a bit of beef from the slavering jaws of a starving dog. Well, she was no starving mongrel. She had, by virtue of her cunning, exposed him for the wretched blackguard he was. She had stripped away the thin veneer of righteousness in which he chose to garb himself, and had shown him the rancid blackness of his cowardly heart. She was sure he did not like what he saw, but that did not matter. What mattered was that he had quailed before the truth like a mole shying away from the light of the sun. Here in this room, she had her vengeance in her grasp. All she had to do now was bear this merciless agony for a little while longer, and then she could reap her just rewards.  
  
All smug thoughts were slapped out of her head by another contraction, this one more fierce and terrible than all the rest, and she shrieked, a long, ululating howl that made her throat throb with effort, and her hands snapped closed around the sweat-dampened bedclothes so hard that she snapped a fingernail to the quick and pierced her sweaty palm with another, leaving a crescent weal of blood. The pain was monstrous, a pain so bright and clean, like her innards had sprouted icicles that were now trying to erupt from the cavern of her womb like stalagmites. She groaned again, and beneath the sheet of pain ravaging her bulbous stomach, she felt something shift. The bastard inside her was moving.  
  
"Good," murmured the midwife, who was peering intently between the valley of Sithirantiel's thighs, and Sithirantiel was struck by an odd thought, a blink of intuition that was gone in a moment. She meant more by that simple word than she would have be known, she thought with a stoic clarity. She thought(and she was not wrong)that the old crone was enjoying her agonies.  
  
Her legs were pushed up and apart, and she felt impossibly stretched. If she had been able to see herself from a bird's eye view, she would have been mortified by her most undignified appearance. Her face was hectic, red splotches blossoming almost purple from her exertions. Her hair, so patiently coiffed that very morning, was a lank, snarled ruin hanging dispiritedly in her furious, smoldering black eyes. Her breasts lay flat against her chest, dwarfed by the gargantuan mound of her stomach, which rippled and tensed with another contraction. Her legs splayed almost dangerously wide, making her look like a traitor about to be drawn and quartered.  
  
The pain was now nearly constant, bright and hard as mica chips glinting in the desert sun. From somewhere beneath its all-encompassing pall, she heard the midwife give a single, stern command. "Push!"  
  
"May the demons of Arda swallow you whole!" she spat.  
  
The midwife only stared at her with an expressionless face and repeated her command. "Push!"  
  
So she pushed. She pressed her chin into the sweat-slicked skin of her heaving chest and bore down with all her might. She could hear the sound of her teeth grinding together like dry pebbles as she pushed. The blood pounded in her hot ears. She was vaguely aware of the midwife counting off in a placid, atonal voice. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5… At last she fell back, exhausted. The child did not seem to have moved.  
  
"That was good, but you need to make it to ten," the midwife said calmly.  
  
"I would like to see you make it to ten, you miserable old hag! Like as not, the pressure of such a thing would tear you apart like a tired bag of cloth," snarled Sithirantiel. The pain was crushing. Had she known had difficult birth was going to be, she might have taken a different, less painful road to Elrond's destruction.  
  
"Be that as it may, my potential performance in your place is of no account. I am not where you are. Talking will not end you discomfort any faster. Indeed, it will have the opposite end. Now take a deep breath and push." The midwife's disdain for her was now evident. She stared at Sithirantiel, her blue eyes icy with anger. Her jaw was set in a hard line.  
  
Sithirantiel tried to disobey the order, to give a show of defiance in the face of this mounting chaos, but the biological imperative to bear down was irresistible. The spasm clawed at her insides like a feral beast, and she grunted and pressed her chin down. The monotonous count began again.  
  
"When this is over," she panted, collapsing onto the pillows, "I'm going to make you regret your cheek."  
  
"When this is over, you will not have the strength to even raise your head," came the sedate reply. "Again!"  
  
On and on it went. The sharp command followed by the drone of the count. Each push brought her closer to exhaustion. She could feel it stealing into her trembling muscles, a warm, stinging fog. Her teeth ached from constant grinding. Her stomach felt stretched and tender. Each push grew a little weaker, a little shorter, and her breath came in whooping gasps. Her hands were raw and bloody from the constant digging of her rough fingernails. She had no way of knowing how long she had been wrangling with the stubborn little beast within her, but the horizon glowed pink through the small window on the far side of the room; it had been drawing down dark when her labor had begun. Twelve hours, at least, and it felt to her like the child had not budged even a centimeter.  
  
"It is no use," she gasped. "The child will not come."  
  
"The child is nearly arrived. Push but a little more," said the midwife, her hands pushing none too gently on Sithirantiel calves.  
  
Too tired to think of a cutting retort, Sithirantiel pushed, her burning, throbbing arms trembling with effort. Though her eyes were hot and bleared with stinging sweat, she could just make out the snowy white crown of the midwife's head and the sharp, jutting profile of her nose. She wanted desperately to smash her fist into the woman's face, shattering it with a sound like clay pottery disintegrating into a thousand pieces inside a wet burlap sack. She wanted someone to share in her agony, and by the gods, someone would.  
  
Like this puling little thing presently engaged in sundering my womb. It's toying with me, it seems; mayhap it knows what its future holds and fears to come out of the dark. If so, it already holds more wits than its father. No matter. We shall see if it feels so feisty after a few days without sustenance. Miserable brat. She entertained these thoughts with a vicious cheerfulness. Yes, it was going to be much fun to repay this defenseless leech for all of her torment.  
  
"I'm afraid I cannot allow that," said a purring voice. Her father's voice.  
  
Had she been more alert, more able, her head would have snapped toward that dreadful voice quickly enough to shred muscle from bone, but the brutal hours of labor had sapped her strength, and she could only manage to swivel her head in a wobbling arc toward the source of her deepest terror.  
  
A mirror stood to her left, an oval full-length mirror with an ornate wrought iron frame. What its purpose was she neither knew nor cared. Her father stood in the mirror, arms folded across his chest, black, pitted teeth exposed in a leering grin. His right shoulder sagged against the frame, as if he were leaning against something just out of view. His feet were crossed. He looked almost jaunty.  
  
"Hello, daughter," he rasped. "Not pleased to see me?" There was no jest in his voice.  
  
Sithirantiel screamed. A hand clapped heedlessly to her lips, leaving a bloody smear. It was hellishly bright on her ghostly face. The other hand pawed mindlessly at the sheets beneath her, leaving bloody handprints. Her eyes bulged, and her mouth formed a perfectly round O of terror.  
  
The midwife, intent on the child whose head was just beginning to peep out from Sithirantiel's cervix, did not see the mind-wrenching terror on Sithirantiel's face and mistook her shrill shrieks for more of her usual melodramatic self-pity.  
  
"Hush and push. 'Tis almost done," she chided without looking up.  
  
He's not real, he's not, not, not," she thought wildly. Close my eyes, I'll close my eyes, and he'll be gone. She squeezed her frantic eyes closed and counted to ten, murmuring a prayer with every breath. Please, she thought, please. She opened them. There was nothing. The mirror was empty.  
  
Her shoulders sagged with relief. Just a bad dream. She gave a small titter. Not real. Of course not.  
  
"I assure you; I am still here. And quite real." There was a cold breath on her ear, and a stink like a thousand defiled tombs drifted past her nose.  
  
I don't want to look, she thought. Please, gods, don't make me look.  
  
She looked. Her father's malevolent face was two inches from her own, the skin black and doughy on his skull. The foul breath from his rotted tongue and blackened gums wafted over her face. She made a retching noise and jerked her face away, but the stench was too powerful. It clung to her, invaded her, the unwanted advances of a spurned lover. This close, she could see the jagged edges of the hole in his throat. She could also see things squirming in that hole, dark and slithering things. He stood over her, a three-dimensional horror. Only the ravenous pain of the incessant contractions prevented her from fainting dead away.  
  
"You can't-,"  
  
"Oh, but I am. And I've come for you at last. Just like you knew I would." He gave her a mockingly benevolent smile, and then his bony hands shot out and wrapped themselves around her throat.  
  
He's real, she thought with a strange, detached wonder. He's real, and he's going to kill me. The stink was overpowering, cloying, the smell of diseased meat left to bake in the sun. She gagged, and the implacable hands tightened their grip. Her bloody hands fluttered up to her neck, clawed fingers wrenching frantically at cold forearms. But the hours of childbirth had made her weak, and she could not move them. Her larynx gave way with a dull pop, the sound of heavy boots crunching brittle, dry grasses.  
  
Sithirantiel began to drown in her own blood.  
  
Her vision faded, replaced by a memory of long ago, a memory of the day her wheel of Fate had taken that first irrevocable turn that would send her down the darker path. It was the memory. The memory of the day she had killed her father.  
  
She had been young, not yet five hundred. She was standing in the middle of the small, cramped bower she shared with her mother and father. Her back and legs stung with the unpleasant reminder of a lashing she had just received. She knew even without trying that it would be a week before she could sit down. The memory of the beating welled up in her, making her cheeks flame warmer than the raw skin of her buttocks. She felt a dull stab of hatred for the man she called adar.  
  
Nothing was ever good enough for him. Nothing. If she burned the lembas, a beating. If she failed to answer one of his questions correctly or quickly enough, a beating. If she did not come right away when called, a beating. If she missed a target during archery practice, a beating. Sometimes she thought he beat her just for being alive.  
  
She shot a furtive glance at the object of her hatred from downcast eyes. She did not dare look at him directly for fear that he might see her and reward her impudence with yet another thrashing. At the moment, he was seated at his workbench, facing away from her and hunched over his latest woodworking project. He was humming a tuneless ditty to himself. She felt another twinge of ugly green hate for him. Bastard. She hated him. She wished he was dead.  
  
She turned away, intending to go to her room and curl up on her soft pallet, her thin cotton blanket pulled up to her neck. It was the one place she felt safe. Then her eyes had fallen on the sturdy, slender bow she used for archery practice. Its polished cedar gleamed amid the mid- afternoon shadows, suffused, at least to her eyes, with its own inner light. The falling dust motes, caught for a moment in the mellow rays of the sunshine, swirled and eddied above it, tiny moths drawn to a cold flame. In the strange half-light, it looked almost holy.  
  
She glided, silent as a snake, to the low wooden table on which it sat. As she drew close, she could faintly make out the smell of pine resin, which she used to polish it every day. The bow looked at her expectantly, as though it had been waiting for her. She reached out and stroked a finger reverently along the pale, gleaming wood. It thrummed beneath her finger like a thing alive.  
  
She picked it up off the table, careful not to make any noise. If she disturbed her father at his work, there would be another beating. It was light and cool in her hands. Holding it made her feel proud. She was very good at archery; even her father said so, and he was not one for compliments. When she took practice, she rarely missed the paper targets her father set up for her. On the rare occasion that she did miss, there was a beating, naturally, and fear of reprisal went a long way to ensure that she worked to improve herself.  
  
She lifted the bow up and took aim at her father's back, just between the shoulderblades. Her finger twitched delicately against the bowstring as she pulled it back. The bow was empty, of course, so when she released the string, nothing issued from it but the soft twang of the string as it snapped back into position.  
  
Oh, how she wished she could do it, could shoot him down like the miserable cur he was. She would pay him back handsomely for all of the times he had whipped her until she bled, until her skin was flayed and cracked. She fancied she heard the meaty thud as the arrow struck home and toppled her tyrant king. She smiled. Would it take a long time for him to die? she thought. Would he cry out if I killed him?  
  
Why don't you find out? The thought was so cold and so forbidden that she nearly dropped the bow. She couldn't do that. She hated him, yes, but she couldn't do that, could she? Surely they would catch her and punish her if she did. Still, the idea was not unattractive. It was a chance to be rid of him forever, to be rid of his cruel whippings. And who would ever suspect her? She was only a child, after all. Still, she wasn't sure she should do it.  
  
Why not? Who would ever know? Your mother is not here, and will not be for some hours yet. Anyway, there is no need to stay here once the deed is done. Flee if it suits you.  
  
At that thought, the bow grew warm in her hands. It seemed to surge with a mysterious power, and she was acutely aware for the very first time of the power she held in her hands. It could kill; that was, in fact, the purpose for which it had been made. That had been her first taste of power, real power. It was sublime.  
  
Her eyes were drawn like magnets to the quiver of arrows behind the table. In her heightened state of awareness, she could see the fine grain of the wood in each shaft. Her slippered feet moved quickly across the floor until she stood before it. Her mind hesitated, but her body never did. Her small hand drew two arrows from the quiver. She looked at them as though she had never seen them before.  
  
She returned to her place in front of the table. As though in a dream, her hands deftly fitted an arrow into the bow. Her slender arms rose, pointing it once more at the center of his back. A calm certainty fell over her. She was going to do it. There were no butterflies in her stomach, no rabbity voice of conscience screaming for her to stop. She had gone cold inside.  
  
"Adar," she said. She wanted to see his face before he died.  
  
There was no response. His lithe arms did not even stop their movement as he tinkered furiously with the object on his workbench. This was not unusual. He often did not speak to her for several days after a beating. That was all right. She could wait.  
  
"Adar," she called again a few minutes later.  
  
This time, his hands stopped their flurry of motion and there was an ominous clearing of the throat. It was a warning. Be quiet, that sound said. He still thought he had the power around here. She stifled a mad spate of giggles. He was about to learn differently, but that was just fine by her. She waited until the movement from her father resumed. She could afford to be patient.  
  
"Adar." She gave her voice just a touch of condescending impertinence.  
  
That did it. Her father erupted from his chair and whirled to face her. His eyes were simmering with fury.  
  
"What have I told you about interrupting me, you impudent li-," He stopped when he saw the taut bow in her hands. "Sithirantiel, what are you doing?"  
  
"I think you know." The words were casual, glib. Her voice did not quaver and her hands did not shake.  
  
The anger in her father's eyes sputtered and died, replaced by an even more primal emotion-fear. He tried to hide it, but it was there just the same. She could almost smell it, a musky, jungly smell, sharp and cutting as acid to her nose. She crinkled it in disgust. Seeing fear on his face filled her with an exhilaration so exquisite she was nauseated by it. She felt a giddy smile spreading over her face. There was an almost sexual tightening in her prepubescent groin, a cramp that made her feel all tingly and warm down there. She thought she would explode if she looked at him much longer.  
  
"Put that down!" His voice was hoarse, not quite steady.  
  
"No, I don't think I will." The voice coming out of her was calm, musing. It was not the voice of a terrified child cowering beneath the shadow of the lash. It was the voice of a young girl who has tapped into some arcane conduit of power and knows how to wield it. "What ails you, father? You don't look at all well."  
  
"You'll pay for your cheek," he roared, and took a step towards her.  
  
She raised the bow a few inches higher until the arrow tip pointed at his bobbing Adam's apple. Though he was advancing toward her quickly, probably with the intention of beating her senseless, most likely to death, she did not hurry. She measured him in the same meticulous manner with which she measured the thin paper targets he set up for her. Just a paper man, she thought, and loosed the bow with a merry twang of horsehair string.  
  
The man who had haunted and hounded her childhood simply by the unfortunate virtue of being her father did not topple over and crash to the ground like a felled redwood as she had thought he might. Instead, he wavered dreamily on his feet, big, work-roughened hands fluttering ineffectually around the delicate shaft of the arrow he suddenly found lodged in his throat. His eyes bulged, round and fish-like, from their sockets.  
  
"Gah," he croaked, and a freshet of dark red blood gushed from his mouth.  
  
She watched him impassively as he crumpled slowly to the floor, knees touching the floor gently. He warbled like a throttled turkey. She blinked sedately. He pitched sideways, arm flung outward. She watched with interest as his outstretched hand opened and closed, opened and closed.  
  
It took him forty-five minutes to die. She watched it all with her dispassionate obsidian gaze, hunkered over his twitching body like a curious child squatting over the death throes of a crushed insect. A few times, he tried to cry out but only managed a queer, gabbling croak. His hands, spasmed into claws, scraped sporadically against the floor, gouging thin lines in its hard surface.  
  
Near the end, when the blood and swollen tissue had completely blocked his airway, he had flopped over onto his back and glared at her with his bulging, agonized eyes, and in them she saw impossible malice. His pupils were wide; looking at them was like peering over the edge of a precipice to find a bottomless abyss of midnight fire. His outstretched hand rose slowly, and he pointed at her.  
  
He's marking me, she thought, and a ripple of gooseflesh traveled up her spine. Then she shook her head and laughed.  
  
"What can you do to me, old man?" she sneered, giving him a kick. "You're already dead."  
  
Something, a word, maybe, tried to force its way from his ruined throat. All that came out was a wet, glottal gargle. Then his body had gone rigid, his back arcing off the floor in a final tortured spasm. After that there had been no more movement, no more sound. The dark fire in his eyes slowly faded into the dull glaze of lifelessness. His clawed hands relaxed. The tyrant king had fallen.  
  
When she had been certain that he was dead, she stood up. After a brief stretch, she calmly picked up the unused arrow and replaced it in the quiver. Then she slipped out of the bower and into the surrounding woods. She never gave the cooling corpse of her father another look.  
  
When she returned from the woods a few hours later, the small community had been in chaos. Her mother, who had discovered the body upon returning home, was under the watchful care of Mirkwood's healer, heavily sedated. Most people were so relieved to find her alive and unscathed that they did not question her story of being outside playing in the clearing when the swarthy bandits came and killed her father. The fact that she could not describe the bandits was of little consequence; she had been through a great trauma. Three days in the woods with no food or water was enough to disorient anyone, they said.  
  
If anyone wondered at the strange welts on her back and calves or entertained misgivings about her curious lack of grief upon the loss of her father, they never spoke of it. Soon enough, the matter passed out of the people's interest and into the local mythos. Sithirantiel never thought of her father again. At least not in the safety of daylight. At night, when the veil between the worlds was thinner, he came to her in her dreams, a ghastly specter with burning, lunatic eyes and a pointing, accusatory finger. Sleep never again offered her the same sweet sanctuary. Even in death her father had made her pay.  
  
All of this passed though Sithirantiel mind in less than three seconds. Her brain, consuming itself in a futile, cannibalistic attempt at salvation, began stealing oxygen from its own cells. The memory faded. In the instant before she was given the mercy of unconsciousness, her rolling eyes locked onto the leering, victorious face of her father. His breath was hot and eager on her face.  
  
"You forgot one thing, daughter dearest," he crowed, "sometimes power requires sacrifice."  
  
She did not feel it when he snapped her neck with a sound like a heavy branch cracking beneath December frost. Sithirantiel had gone to her reward.  
  
The midwife, who had looked up to tell her patient to push just one more time, stared at the scene before her in stunned incomprehension. She had delivered babies for hundred of years, hundreds of thousands of them, and she had never witnessed anything like this. Never. One minute the birth had been progressing well, and the next Sithirantiel had begun to scream and paw at the air, as though fighting an invisible assailant. Yet there had been no one there.  
  
You must be losing your mind, she thought. You did not see what you think you did. You did not see her throat swell and bulge as though wrung by unseen hands. She just had a convulsion and died, that's all.  
  
A convulsion strong enough to snap her neck? questioned the frightened voice of logic inside her head.  
  
Elbereth, what was she doing? Standing here like an open-mouthed imbecile while there was still a chance the child might live. The head had very nearly crowned before Sithirantiel had suffered her fatal seizure. She squatted down and pushed the limp leg of the dead woman aside. A quick look confirmed that the child's head was just beneath the lip of the cervix. She could just make out a tiny scrap of pink scalp. If it was still pink, that meant it was still getting a little oxygen, but it didn't have much time. She had to get it out now.  
  
She slipped one hand inside of the womb easily enough and felt the reassuring presence of warm flesh. When she tried to insert the other hand, though, she discovered to her dismay that the child had turned on its side and was wedged firmly inside the womb, its tiny shoulder lodged firmly against the mother's pelvic bone. She would have to break a hip to get it out, and she wasn't sure she had the strength to do it. She sighed.  
  
"Lord Elrond," she called, "Please come at once! Hurry!"  
  
There were no rapidly approaching footsteps echoing down the corridor. It remained eerily silent. She called again, louder this time, more strident. Still nothing. No swish of robe, no crisp clop-clop of slippers on stone floor. Just the indifferent silence. She cursed him under her breath.  
  
Damn him! Probably wallowing in self-pity again. He had been doing that a lot-too much-lately.  
  
"Lord Elrond, come at once!" she demanded. She was screaming now, not really caring if she had offended his sensibilities. She needed his help, and she needed it now.  
  
When there was no response to her third frantic summons, she gave up on him and tried to find another way to save the child's life. One push on the rigid hipbone blocking the child's shoulder told her she would never be able to exert enough pressure to break it. She tried to palpitate the abdomen, to push the child down and sideways, away from the bone. Nothing. Another look between the woman's legs showed that the rosy scalp was quickly fading. The child was running out of time.  
  
Her eyes settled on the knife she had brought to sever the umbilical cord, and a gruesome idea began to form in her mind. She tried to push it away, but it would not go.  
  
Going to let the babe die because you're a bit squeamish, are you? prodded her conscience.  
  
No, she wasn't. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she picked up the knife, muttered a quick prayer, and went to work.  
  
In his chambers, Lord Elrond was fighting a tremendous battle between his desire to hide from what he knew awaited him down the hall and his sworn duty as healer of the realm. He did not want to go to Sithirantiel, did not want any part of the life making its way into the world; yet as healer, it was his duty, his duty to save any life if it were in his power to do so, even if he did not wish to save it.  
  
He did not want to save Sithirantiel. He wanted her to die. If she died and took the child with her, his troubles would be over. He could pretend that none of this had ever happened, and after enough time had passed, maybe he could even believe it. He could have everything he ever wanted if he just sat here in this chair and pretended that he heard nothing. He would not be haunted by the knowledge that a child of his wandered somewhere in the dark places of this world. He could start his life with Celebrian with a clean slate. All he had to do was stay right here.  
  
You can do that, said his conscience, weakened but not destroyed. I cannot stop you if you do. But have you really fallen so far? Have you? What kind of man have you become that you would let an innocent life be extinguished, let it pay for your mistake? If you let it die, though you have laid not a hand on it, the blood shall be upon your hands, and I will never let you forget it. I will remind you of what you did not do for all the rest of your days. I can do that, at least. And when I fall silent, your tormentor will be glad to take my place. Every choice has a price, some higher than they seem. Are you willing to pay?  
  
Elrond groaned, a miserable, hunted sound, the sound of an animal trapped between the sharp point of the hunter's spear and the gleaming steel jaws of a limb-crushing trap. There was no way out. Whichever way he turned, he was damned. Now he had only to choose the method of his downfall. With a deep breath, as though to fortify himself for some monumental task, he rose from his chair.  
  
Slowly, reluctantly, like a man going to the gallows, he went around the room collecting the things he thought he might need. The midwife's urgent, plaintive cries had stopped, and there were no more screams coming from Sithirantiel. It was probably too late, but he owed it to himself and the child to at least go and see.  
  
You do not have to do this, insisted the insidious voice of his fear. You can claim you heard nothing, and no one would be the wiser.  
  
"I would be the wiser," he said. "I would."  
  
Are you sure you want to do this? the voice asked.  
  
"No, I do no want to do this," he said, pulling some fresh towels from a wardrobe by the door. "I have to. I just have to." He went out.  
  
The corridor, save for the two solemn sentries posted on either side of his door, was utterly deserted. Both of the guards inclined their heads and snapped their heels together as he passed.  
  
"Some strange doings at the midwife's tonight, m'lord," said one, shooting a nervous glance at the closed door at the end of the hall.  
  
"My wife's time draws close," said the other. "I hope she fares better than the unfortunate tonight. Birth sounds an awful business." He looked vaguely ill.  
  
Whatever she has endured, it cannot possibly be enough for what she has done, he thought grimly, unaware of what he was about to find in the room down the hall. In the heavy silence of the lonely passageway, his slippered feet seemed very loud as they shambled and grated over the gritty floor. His heart was thudding painfully in his chest; he could feel his ribs vibrating softly with each beat. He swallowed, and there was a dry click in his throat. The heavy door to the midwife's chambers suddenly seemed a thousand leagues away. I cannot do this. The thought fluttered around his head like a panicked bird trying to escape a gilded cage  
  
Somehow he kept moving forward. The thought of what that pair of sentries would think if he ran screaming back to his chambers helped him to put one foot in front of the others. He mustn't show weakness, no matter how much he felt it. As the door edged ever closer, a new and strange sound reached his ears. It was a wet tearing sound, like strips of wet flesh being torn into pieces. It was coming from the midwife's chamber.  
  
A midwife's chamber is home to many sounds. The sound of groaning and weeping as a mother gave birth. The sharp, strident cry as a newborn child drew its first breath. Occasionally, the bitter sobs of a mother whose child did not survive the ordeal could be heard. But this sound, the sound of a hungry beast feasting on a meaty carcass, did not belong. He felt a cold, suffocating dread settle around his larruping heart. He crushed the towels and other supplies he had been carrying to his chest.  
  
I don't want to see what lies behind that door, no, I don't. Not for money, not for honor, not for charity, not at all. I want to go back to my chambers and bolt the door behind me. Please, Elbereth, let me turn around.  
  
But his feet kept going forward, carrying him closer to the door. He doubted he could turn them from their path now if he tried. Halfway to the door, his ears were greeted by another sound, a far more normal sound-the shrill, offended cry of a healthy newborn child. The blanket of trepidation lifted a little, but it did not dissipate entirely. The lack of response from either Sithirantiel or the midwife troubled him, and though the rending noises had ceased, their memory still echoed in his head. Those unnatural, wet sounds.  
  
He hesitated in front of the door. The thought came again, I do not want to see what is behind this door. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. His throat felt roughly the size of a pinhole. His bladder was a shrunken sac. His hands tingled with adrenaline. He opened the door.  
  
For a moment, all he could see was red. Red on the floor in pools and rivers, red splashed on the walls in great starburst constellations. There was even a mist of red on the ceiling. Then his shocked eyes adjusted, and he realized that it was all blood. Pools and rivers and droplets of blood. The source of the blood lay on the bed.  
  
Sithirantiel's face was a rictus of terror. Pie plate eyes bulged from shrunken sockets. A livid purple, swollen tongue protruded from her slack mouth. Her head jutted at an awkward angle, ear just grazing the top of her breast. Below her breasts, there was-  
  
He swayed in the doorway a moment, then stumbled inside and slammed the door behind him before anyone else, likely his sentries, could see. Once inside, the coppery smell of congealing blood hit his nostrils and he struggled with his gorge. He looked down at the supplies he had brought, all quite useless. He looked at the bright point of the needle sticking out from the spool of suturing thread.  
  
I'm afraid that wound is beyond my skill, he thought, and wheezed frightened, falsetto laughter.  
  
"I did what I had to do," said the mid-wife.  
  
He jumped, badly frightened. In his stupefied fascination at the carnage before him, he had not noticed her standing silently beside the mirror. He looked at her and nearly screamed. She had no arms. From the elbows down, there was nothing but bright red. Then he blinked and saw that her arms were indeed still intact; they were just slathered from fingertip to elbow with a solid sheet of blood. In them, she held a swaddled bundle, a bundle that cooed and kicked.  
  
"Sire," she said in a thick dreamy voice, "your daughter." 


	25. Confronting the Past V: Fate Sealed

Not a soul was stirring at Imladris in the endless black hours before dawn, but it was not silent.  Devoid of the trampings of countless feet, the shadowy, dreaming halls sussurrated with their own private whisperings, telling of deeds long done and of lives long past, reminiscing of all that had gone before.  The guards unlucky enough to have drawn night duty shuffled drowsily at their posts.  Their staffs and halberds gave off muffled clinks in the somber, silvery air.  Deep, rumbling snores and the breathy mutterings of elves locked in uneasy or amorous dream sounded from behind heavy black doors.  In the midwife's chambers, dark now save for two winking points of light, all was still.  A sound, too low and stealthy for human ears, lifted on the rose-scented breeze drifting in through the open window.  It was a sound that should have been comfortable, but somehow was not.  It was the melodic creak of a rattan rocking chair as it moved uneasily, furtively in the all-consuming darkness.

     Elrond gazed silently and thoughtfully down at the bundle in his arms.  It lay still and quiet, a seductive weight in his arms.  From within the myriad folds of swaddling drifted the smells of talc and sweet pear and toasted caramel, the scent of newborn elven child.  They were sweet smells, pleasant smells, and as he inhaled them, the hollows of his cheeks ached with unexpressed emotion.  Even now the smells of talc and toasted caramel were beginning to fade, and he knew that when she grew older, the child would carry with her the sugary scent of fresh pear.  It would forevermore be the odor that would identify his child and speak to his guilt.

     _Mine, _he thought as he stared down into her sleeping, unsuspecting face, and the thought was so enormous that he turned away from it and gazed out the open window.

     The moon and stars, the voyeurs of all that came to pass beneath their silver glow, hung sharp and clear in the night sky.  The moon was large and bone white, a robust late summer moon.  A warm breeze scented with jasmine washed over his face, and he tilted his chin towards it, bidding it give him respite from the worries and toils of these past days.  It skirled and eddied through the lush leaves of the hale oak sapling just outside his window, producing a soft, shimmying hiss like lace drawn over polished mahogany.  It was a lonely sound, a forlorn sound, and listening to it, his thoughts were drawn once more to the child in his arms.

     Ten days had passed since her birth and Sithirantiel's grisly but welcome demise.  Time and again, he had sworn to himself that he would have nothing to do with the child, the secret citizen of Rivendell.  He told himself over and over again that to become attached was a terrible idea, a stupidity neither of them could well afford.  And yet, each night, in the most potent, dreaming hours of the dark, he found himself creeping to this room to stand over her cradle like a criminal returning to the scene of his infamous crime.  Sometimes he just stood and watched her, but on most nights, like tonight, he found himself rocking her gently while she slept with a peace he could only covet.

     "What am I to do with you, little one?" he whispered into the darkness, giving voice to the question that had been gnawing at his mind and heart since the moment he'd known that she was to be.  The child gave a soft cluck and settled deeper into slumber.

     He smiled wryly.  That was as good an answer as any, he supposed.  It was much the same as he had come up with in ten days of agonized pondering and inner debate.  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  He sighed and rested his head against the back of the chair, relaxing into the soothing rhythm of the chair as his feet pumped gently on the floor.  Solid ground beneath his feet; now an odd weightlessness as all but the tips of his toes left the floor.

     It had all seemed so simple before, when she had been little more than an abstract idea, a fuzzy image associated with the word "child."  He had been certain then that he could blithely and dispassionately decide her fate.  Back then, he'd thought there was but one clear, simple choice-to send her away.  But now that she was here, a creature of warm, sweet-smelling flesh and fragile bone, he found that the matter was not so simple at all.  Almost against his will, he found himself bonding with her, responding to those instinctive pangs of paternal love.  It had been folly to think he could resist them, could turn them off like a troublesome bit of machinery.  As soon as he had looked into her tiny, wrinkled, red, damp face minutes after her birth, he had been hopelessly lost.  The decision before him was torturous.  Either way he chose, she would suffer.

     "Why must things be so hard?" he said softly.

     _They didn't have to be.  You got yourself into this mess.  Sithirantiel didn't create this child alone, _snapped the voice in his head.

     He snorted.  Much as he wished to deny it, the voice was right.  He _had_ gotten himself into this mess.  If only he had refused the wine that night, none of this would have ever happened.  Sithirantiel would never have been able to ensnare him.  This child that now slumbered in his arms would still be nestled in the bosom of the Valar, waiting to be sent to two loving parents who would cherish her forever, not trusting her young fate to this sleepless fool who had lost his reason and self-respect.

     _Ah, but therein lies the rub, does it not?  For all the trouble and pain that she represents, you are glad to have her all the same, _mused his constant internal companion.

     He stopped rocking and gazed down at his daughter.  Her face was small and ethereal in the pale moonlight.  Slowly, reverently, he traced a hesitant forefinger down her cheek.  She cooed and turned her head instinctively towards the warmth of his hand, but she did not awaken.  It was a gesture of blind, helpless innocence, and it made him want to weep.  Yes, it was true; he did want her.  How could he not?  There was no doubt that she was his child.  She had been gifted his high, stern cheekbones and haughty, regal nose.  Her rounded chin had also come from him.  Her hair was blonde like her mother's, though not so blindingly white.  The only feature for which he could not account was her eyes.  They were startlingly blue, almost cobalt.  He suspected they came from an earlier generation, his mother, perhaps.  The old tales said that her eyes had been of the fairest blue.  Maybe they had been unwittingly carried into the future by his unexpected progeny.

     He could almost smile at the bitter irony of it.  While she had been taking form in Sithirantiel's doomed belly, he had desperately wished her away as though she were a virulent plague.  Now that she drew breath, he discovered himself searching more and more fervently for ways to keep her, even as it became more and more obvious that it could not be.  Try as he might, he could see no way to make it work, save one, and he was still too much of a coward to take it.  No matter how much he loved this child, he simply could not confess the truth to Celebrian.

     "I'm sorry for what I've done to you," he told the child.

     He did not want to give her up.  The small weight of her nestled in the crook of his arm seemed a natural extension of his own body.  Her scent mingled with the dusky perfume of summer was something preordained.  She belonged.  She was where she needed to be.  Yet to keep her here would be a disservice; the rightness of her presence would never absolve her of the guilt his conscience would heap upon her.  For every joy at watching her take her first uncertain steps or saying her first word, there would be a price.  His glee would be tempered by the terrible knowledge of what she was and the memories she represented.  She would forever and anon be the prodigal daughter, the single blight on his otherwise blissful existence.  She was better off far away from him and his turbulent, corrosive recollections.

     _Rather self-serving, shoddy absolution for yourself, don't you think? _smirked the hateful voice, and he pushed it away with a tight-lipped grimace.

     He resumed his tranquil rocking, his slippered feet pumping softly.  His right hand gently tapped the rounded shape of the child's bottom in soft, staccato rhythm.  His head fell back against the knotted surface of the rocker.  Soon the stern chin sagged and dry pink lips parted to reveal a glint of white teeth.  The twinkle in brown eyes was extinguished as heavy lids drooped drowsily over them.  Alone with his child, the Lord Elrond slept.  Soon enough, he dreamt.

     _It is high summer.  The day is hot and sticky, filling him with a lazy, contented languor.  He sits placidly on the light blanket stretched out beneath him, propped on his elbows.  One hand clutches a mug of chilled lemonade; the sweat of it beads and prickles against the palm of his hand.  The other hand fans dreamily at his face.   The air is heavy with heat.  Everything shimmers and ripples beneath its syrupy glaze._

_     Celebrian sits beside him, her knees folded primly beneath her.  She looks cool and fresh, unwilted by the sun.  Only the faintest pink glow on her exposed shoulders belies her discomfort.  She does not see him looking at her.  She is too busy laughing at smiling at the antics of their young son.  Her eyes are sparkling, and she laughs and claps her hands as the child toddles happily after a butterfly on sturdy, chubby legs._

_     He looks at her a moment longer, reluctant to spoil the mood.  But the marks on her shoulders are growing ever darker, and he knows that if she does not protect herself with some cooling ointment, she will suffer a painful sunburn.  Finally, he says, "Celebrian, love, I think it wise for you to attend to your shoulders.  The sun has become a bit too enamored of them."  _

_     "Mmm?" she says, tearing her gaze away from her frolicking son._

_     He points at her shoulders.  She spares them a surprised glance.  He watches bemused, as the heat finally registers in her brain.  She leans over and plunges her hand absently into the large wicker basket they have carried out with them, searching, he rightly supposes, for the small jar of sun ointment he packed among the chilled cucumber sandwiches and frosty jugs of juice.  As she does so, he is treated to a tantalizing vision of her full, rounded cleavage, and it occurs to him that he would very much like to further investigate what hides beneath her slim, form-fitting gown.  Perhaps later, after Galathion was in bed, he would do just that.  He smiled a seductive, thoughtful smile and took a lingering drink from the mug in his hand._

_     A crow of triumph distracts him from his lechery, and he turns to see his young son holding a clutch of goldenrod in a chubby fist.  His small fingers strangle the rich yellow flowers, but in his small brown eyes there is no malicious intent, only wonder at the beauty he has found.  He is gazing raptly at the flowers, drinking in the vivid colors.  _

_     Elrond feels a tightening in his chest at this singularly Elvish display of childhood wonder.  His proud-father eyes do not see the runner of drool dangling from the end of a small chin or the drying smear of chocolate on one smiling cheek.  They see only his son in all his childish innocence, plump and sturdy and unabashedly naked-the son that is now holding the throttled goldenrod out to him in sacred offering._

_     "What have you got there?" he asks, holding out his arms._

_     His arms fill with wiggling child as his son clambers onto his lap.  This close, he can smell the boy's scent, the subtle tang of lemon.  There are other smells, too-earth and sweat and grass.  As the boy squirms and settles in, he can see that his baby-soft skin is turning pink, and it makes him a little sad.  He is content here with his family and away from the cares of the world, but soon they will have to go inside.  In fifteen minutes, they will gather their things and return to the castle._

_     He is struck by the solidness of the boy in his lap.  Running or playing in the palace courtyard, he seems to Elrond an ephemeral thing, a being as light and fragile as the wings of a butterfly.  Here in his lap, the illusion is dispelled; his son, Galathion, is not fragile, but sturdy.  At two years of age, his legs are still chubby, but beneath the thick layer of baby fat, his muscles are strengthening, coiling protectively over tiny bones.  In later years, these same soft legs will grow lithe and hard, the legs of a warrior.  The small, stubby arms and the pudgy hands that are now shoving the goldenrod happily into his face will one day be in command of a finely crafted bow.  The smoked hickory eyes gazing adoringly up at him will track and slay a thousand orcs.  That, though, is at least eight hundred years in the future.  For now he is just a little boy, his little boy, and he is looking at his father expectantly._

_     "What splendid goldenrod you have there!" he says to the boy in tones of the highest approval.  "Where did you find it?"_

_     His only answer is a grimy finger pointing in front of him.  Following the finger, he sees a patch of upturned earth and trampled grass.  Several goldenrod stalks have been bent and hang like partially severed limbs.  Clearly, his boy has been quite thorough in his quest to gather all the prettiest flowers.  He fights to suppress a smile._

_     "Well done, though we shall have to address your tidiness," he says with a laugh._

_     Galathion gives a happy crow of acknowledgment, and Elrond hugs him tightly.  A wave of paternal love washes over him-it is so fierce he feels as though he is drowning in it.  He still cannot believe that he, a man with so many flaws, could have sired something so perfect.  He wonders if he is worthy of such a gift.  He feels absurdly like laughing and crying all at once.  Then Celebrian's cool hand is resting on his shoulder._

_     "I love you," she says, and lays her head upon his shoulder._

_     He disentangles an arm from around his singing, babbling son and wraps it around her waist.  As she snuggles close, he is enveloped by her clean, earthy scent and cushioned by her soft flesh.  Gradually, the feeling of inadequacy passes, replaced by a deep sense of contentment.  At last he can enjoy the fruits of his long labors._

_     Something within the endless corridors of his mind stirs feebly.  A memory of a sin long buried.  An icy finger of unease jabs at his gut.  The memory struggles again, harder this time, but it has been dormant too long and cannot push through the century's worth of stone he has piled ruthlessly on top of it.  There is another seismic shudder, and then all grows still again.  The coldness in his stomach dissipates.  It is just as well that he cannot remember.  He wants nothing to spoil this day._

_      A fat honeybee lands on his shoulder and trundles listlessly towards his neck._

_     There is something wrong with the bee, though he cannot say precisely what.  It possesses all the parts it should and none that it should not.  Nothing is too large or too small.  It is crawling lethargically, but that can be attributed to the stuporous, life-draining heat.  In all respects, it is a normal, healthy bumblebee.  Yet the sight of it lumbering in the direction of his neck sends a cramp of unease through he stomach.  He reaches up to brush it away.  He does not want this thing on him or anywhere near him, for that matter.  Before his fingers can do more the touch the cloth of his robe, the bee emits a very un-bee-like reedy croak and topples off his shoulder.  It lands on its back, its six legs paddling convulsively.  There is a last twitch, then nothing.  It is dead._

_     His mouth is suddenly very dry.  The faint cramp of unease becomes a hammer pounding into his vitals with thunderclap blows.  His heartbeat doubles, then trebles, and it makes his eardrums throb.  His cool, calculating leader's mind suddenly seems frozen, incapable of any thought save one-_something is terribly amiss.  _The skin of his hands and arms that five minutes ago had been glistening with sweat is now drawn taut in lumpy puckers of gooseflesh.  He is in the inescapable grasp of an inexplicable fear._

_     It is then that he notices the smell, the stinging smell of ozone, like rosewater tinged with acid.  There is also an underlying smell, like a musty damp cloth.  It is the smell of rain.  When he looks up, he sees that the formerly blue sky is a bruised, roiling black.  Enormous, bloated thunderheads blot out the sun and threaten to loose their cargo of rainwater.  There is a blinding flash as lightning rends the heavens, followed by the grinding roar of thunder._

_     Finally, another thought surfaces from beneath the glacial surface of his brain-_I have to get away from here.  Have to get Celebrian and Galathion away from this.__

_     Except he cannot.  It is as if he is rooted to the earth.  His limbs refuse to heed the frantic commands of his mind to rise and flee.  He exerts all the force of his will against his errant limbs, and they move not an inch.  He might as well be carven of granite._

_     He can still move his head, though, and a quick glance around shows him that his family is no better.  Galathion sits like a lump of molded clay in his lap, chubby fingers of one hand crammed into his mouth.  His eyes are wide and unblinking, bits of polished glass in his small face.  At his side, Celebrian is rigid, her fingers digging into the earth like fleshy roots._

We're being petrified, _he thinks.  _Soon my head will stiffen like frozen wax, and we'll all sit here forevermore, or at least until my sentries come looking for us.  I wonder if my faculties will remain intact, if I'll feel and sense time passing me by while my body turns to stone.  Will I spend eternity looking out at the world I can no longer touch, helpless as birds make their nests in my hair?

     _The thought is not a pleasant one, and he shuts his eyes against it.  There is a blinding flash of blue-white light that makes his skin prickle, the angry bellow of thunder, and then the rain comes down in blinding sheets.  It scours his face and pounds divots into the unprotected ground.  It is sharp and bitingly cold against his skin._

_     The noise is small and stealthy, light and slithering.  The hackles on the back of his neck rise.  How he can hear such an unremarkable noise above the roaring din of the thunderstorm he does not know.  It is moving closer, now almost directly behind him.  Whatever is making the sounds is quite deliberate.  It is the sound of wet, squelching footsteps._

_     He is absolutely certain that he does not want to see what is coming.  He mutters a prayer through shivering lips.  Without turning his head, he knows that the thing is directly behind him now.  The squelching sounds stop, and he waits for the deathblow to fall, but it never comes.  Instead, he catches a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, and then the stalking thing stands before him._

_     It is not some slavering, inhuman, slouching ghoul, though it is covered in mud and filth.  It is a female, whether human or elf he cannot tell.  Long, wet hair clings to her scalp and cheeks in the driving rain.  Mud rills down her face and arms, scoured away by the stinging downpour.  Beneath the tattered rough cloth of her dress, he sees two pitifully thin, scarred knees tapering down to a pair of bruised, flat-arched bare feet._

_     He stares incredulously at this ragged creature, mesmerized by her oddly familiar blue eyes.  He feels he should know her, yet at the same time, he does not want to._

_     Then she speaks.  "Hello, father."  Her voice is soft, musical, laced with a lazy malice._

_     As he looks at the thin young woman standing still and contemplatively in front of him, the memory he had fended off earlier erupts from the bowels of his subconscious.  Full recognition floods his face.  There, no longer able to be denied by the simple wishing away of his painful memories, stands his daughter.  The strong chin, the haughty cheekbones; it is all the same_

_     She has come home at last._

_     She looms over him, clearly expecting him to speak, but he can think of nothing to say.  He is not even sure now that he could speak if he were to try.  In all probability, he would just sit with his mouth agape, silent save for a brittle wheeze of breath._

_     She folds her mud-encrusted arms across her chest and fixes him with a bemused stare, a mocking sneer curling her lips.  Her eyes are piercing, and he is seized by a maddening need to squirm beneath their unforgiving expression.  She radiates a terrible power, a _righteousness_ that terrifies him.  Even as his insides cramp in icy dread, he finds her beautiful._

_     There is flash of lightning, and her eyes ignite with blue fire.  She begins to circle him slowly, as though inspecting a piece of chattel or a bit of wares for sale.  Her lips purse delicately, never losing their knowing sneer.  Though the punishing, drenching rain has turned the garden into a morass of sodden grass and soupy, sucking mud, she never once missteps, never once stumbles.  Her emaciated, improbable legs bear her with the casual grace of a gazelle._

Her legs might be like those of a gazelle, but her eyes are more befitting predator than prey.  _This thought rises unbidden in his mind, and it forces a soft grunt of unease from his throat._

_     Her head snaps to his face with the speed of a striking serpent, and she laughs softly.  There is no humor in it._

_     "Well, well, father dear, all that I have heard tell of you led me to believe you were quite an eloquent man.  Perhaps I was mistaken?"  She smiles, her teeth tiny points of pearl in the unnatural darkness, and though her words are light, there can be no mistaking the hatred in her voice now, cold and hard as ancient granite.  Poisoned honey._

_     Again she looks at him with her blue-fire gaze, expecting some sort of response, and again, he can think of nothing whatsoever to say.  He watches her in mute bewilderment.  The terrible aura of righteousness still emanates from her in dizzying waves-what words could he possibly utter to defuse her venomous anger?  He knows all too well why she is here, what she has come for, and the price she has come to exact.  He has been waiting for this moment from the instant he sought to banish her from his life._

_     She stops her deliberate pacing and comes to stand in front of him again.  To his surprise, she crouches down, laces her fingers together, and rests her chin on the backs of long, slender palms._

_     "Did you really think you could avoid me forever?  Did you really think I'd let you?"   The questions are nonchalant, but her eyes bore into his, demanding a response._

_     "Hrm," is all he can think to say.  The man who had moved his people to tears or roused them to furious action through the mere power of his words is speechless._

_     He cowers, impotent, in the face of his daughter's sure accusation.  All his illusions of power wither as he looks into her stoic face.  She has the very real power, and he knows it.  She is bursting with it.  Her skin glows with it, and he knows that before she walks away from this private garden, he will be made to pay for his sins._

_     When he does not answer, she gives an incredulous snort and hunkers further down, her buttocks nearly grazing her ankles.  She reaches down to trace strange runes in the mud between her feet.  They are obliterated instantly by the falling rain._

_     "You did, didn't you?" she asks softly, and now there is exasperation as well as anger in her voice.  "Your arrogance runs deep."_

_     She picks up a handful of mud and flings it at him.  It spatters on his forehead and the bridge of his nose in a cold, runny glob.  He blinks furiously as it runs down into his eyes and shakes his head back and forth trying to clear it away._

_     "I've been looking for you for years.  After my adoptive parents died in an orcish raid on Mirkwood, I found the oath of secrecy you made them sign among their things.  You cannot fathom what it was like for me to know that their affection for me was bought at the price of two thousand gildnar per mouth until I should reach the age of reason.  I had no idea I was worth so little."  She spits on the ground before his feet._

_     "If it's any consolation to you, my parents were admirable folk.  They did not beat or starve me, and they never treated me unkindly.  No, it was only after they were no more that I first began to understand the realities of the world beyond their door.  It was only after I went looking for you that I saw what the world could do.  Maybe all would have been well if I could have stayed among the elves, but I wasn't so lucky."_

_     Abruptly she says, "Humans are very different.  I wish I had known from the beginning how very different they were.  Nobody ever told me.  I found out the hard way on my travels.  They do no favors for free.  They want…something in return.  One has to pay the price."  Her eyes darken in rage and remembrance._

_     "I paid the price.  I always paid, no matter how much they stank or how many diseases they carried.  Their hands were always rough.  They took a crude and vulgar pleasure in their conquest of me.  They saw my pointed ears and the brightness of my ears and they smiled that drunken, lascivious smile.  This was no common barmaid wench; this was one of the fair folk.  Such luck they never had in all their rotten, hopeless lives.  Sometimes I bled.  I always hurt.  Some threw a few coins at my feet, but most left me where I lay."_

_     Though she speaks with a calm, clinical detachment, her entire frame is quivering with rage.  Her eyes never droop, never leave his.  Her fingers intertwine restlessly._

_     The implication of what she has told him staggers him.  In the fecund ground of his imagination, he sees her suffering unfold as though he is witnessing it.  He sees her splayed legs, hears the coarse grunt of the filthy human as he has his way with her.  It is a terrible vision, and he prays for some soothing balm to wipe it from his mind._

_     "What's the matter, father?" she snarls, and her voice is dripping with scorn, "Not the sort of life you had envisioned for a daughter of yours?  That's your fault, I'm afraid."_

_     "Why did you come in search of me?" he shouts above the roar of the rain, rain that has grown harder instead of slackening._

_     She throws back her head and laughs, tossing her sodden hair over her shoulders.  "You ARE an insolent bastard.  Blaming me for your misdeed.  Why do you think I went in search of you?  Answers.  Answers to who I am.  In one instant, life as I knew it was turned upside down.  For all these years I've thought myself to be Brelyn, daughter of lesser courtesans in the house of King Thranduil.  Then that damnable piece of parchment changes everything.  Everything!  So tell me, father, who am I?  Why wasn't I good enough for you?  What did I lack that you would toss me aside as though I were of no more consequence than the daily swill?"_

_     She stops, her chest heaving.  She squeezes her hands together so tightly that her knuckles whiten.  Her face is flushed but implacable.  She fixes her cold blue eyes on his face.  And she waits._

_     A million thoughts run through his mind.  Each is more ridiculous and incongruous than the next.  Though part of him has been waiting for this moment since the time he sent her away, he has never made preparations in case the eventuality ever actually arose.  He had rehearsed no speech before a clandestine mirror, drawn up no plan of action should she ever arrive on his doorstep.  He always thought that to do so would be to invite disaster.  _

_     He is about to pay for his foolish lack of foresight, though just how dearly he does not yet guess._

_     Finally, he sighs, "You would not understand."_

_     "Your self-pity is appalling," she snaps, never changing position.  Her mud-slathered hands snap closed in the squelchy mud.  She leans forward on her haunches, her eyes boring into his.  "I wouldn't understand?  I've been bent over tavern tables and taken in garbage-infested alleys, and I wouldn't understand?  Oh, I understand."_

_     "What was she?  A noblewoman or a chambermaid?  Were you ensnared by her womanly temptations?  Was it a torrid coupling or a protracted, secret affair?  Did you woo her with lofty promises of marriage, only to toss her away when she had served her purpose?  Or did she spurn your advances again and again until you wrested away her virtue by force?"  She fires these questions at him in a rapid, clipped voice.  Her nostrils flare slightly as she speaks.  She is silently furious._

_     She does not give him a chance to answer.  "Whatever happened, it is beyond doubt that I was not part of your plan.  I can only imagine what you must have thought when you found out."  She stood and began to circle him once more, hands clasped loosely behind her back.  "I'm sure you cajoled and wheedled in an effort to do away with me.  You are not an easy man to refuse.  What did you do with her when she refused to obey your madness?  Did you spirit her away to some darkened tower for unending torment?  Did you beat her?  No, you would not wish to stain your own kingly hands.  Did you have her murdered and buried in some foul pit?"  Her voice had risen to a hysterical pitch._

_     "No," he answered slowly, "it wasn't that way."_

_     In a flash, she is by his side, her lips bare inches from his ear.  "No?  Then tell me, father; tell me who I am.  Tell me how I came to be!  And tell me, oh yes, tell me why I wasn't good enough for you1"_

_     Her raw, undiluted rage and cynicism stuns him.  He had thought elves incapable of such unrestrained bitterness.  He turns his head to look at her.  He is met by a pair of blazing blue eyes.  Her mud-streaked face shimmers behind the rain.  His sensitive nose detects the odors of sweat and fetid offal.  Her breath tickles his face with the smell of stale bread.  Rain beads on the end of her nose._

_     "What has this world done to you, my child?" he says softly._

_     For an instant, surprise dawns on her face.  Clearly, tenderness is not something she had expected from him.  Then the mask of unyielding anger consumes her face once more.  She laughs, but the laughter does not reach her eyes.  They remain as hard as stone._

_     "I already told you.  If you are hoping for all the lurid little details, I'm sorry to disappoint you.  I was rather too indisposed to be worrying about putting quill to parchment.  I had no idea you were that sort.  Fascinating."_

_     He cannot think of a proper retort for this, so he says, "I did not send you away because I believed you to be beneath me.  You must understand; I did it for you."_

_     "Did it for me?" she snarls.  "What, then?  I was born, and you found me to be so wondrous that you sent me away, lest other elves try to snatch me for their own?  Please.  I am no fool.  Spare me your weak lies.  You brought shame upon yourself and were too cowardly to take the penalty.  That you passed on to me."_

_     "If there were any other way I would have taken-," he says desperately._

_     "There was.  The hard way.  The right way.  The way of honor.  You fled from it like a rabbit fleeing the deadly flames of a forest fire," she hisses._

_     Her accusations sink into him like needling teeth, and he feels a sudden flush of anger.  Before he can stop himself, he spits out the truth.  "You were born of a rape, it is true.  Your mother was a mad whore!"_

_     There is a sharp crack of flesh on flesh as her hand lashes against his cheek.  The warm, prickling heat spreads across his cheek like blood._

_     "You stole her virtue and presume to call her a whore!"_

_     Despite the dream-like horror of the situation, he manages a small, sardonic snort of laughter.  "Virtue?  Virtue never made its home within the heart of Sithirantiel.  You misunderstand, child.  I used no force against your mother.  It was she who imposed her will upon me."_

_     There is a thunderstruck silence.  Then, "Your corruption truly knows no bound.  Do you truly expect me to believe that an elven maiden, fragile and ethereal as the wind, could overwhelm a great elven warrior, whose deeds have gained renown throughout the lands?"  She regards him with blistering contempt._

_     "I was drunk," he says defensively._

_     "Even so.  Surely you could have resisted her, subdued her.  You have guards.  Did you call out for them?  By your voice alone you have commanded millions.  By your hand have thousands of orcs fallen into shadow.  And yet you tell me that you could not repel her unwanted attentions.  Nay, even the drunkest rabble can best an unruly woman.  Trust me; I know of what I speak."_

_     He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it again.  Now that she has spoken it is the most logical thing in the world.  Why hadn't he called out?  For all these years, he had been telling himself that he was too drunk to realize what was happening to him, too drunk to understand that it was not sweet Celebrian who held him, but that wasn't really true.  Something had told him that all was not as it seemed even before he had gone to those sinuous, beckoning arms.  The truth was he had enjoyed that night in Sithirantiel's embrace._

_     "You cannot imagine what it was like for me to hear you frolicking with your wife and that brat as though you hadn't a care in the world.  While he was being spoiled and pampered as a princeling among elves, I was bartering for a few crusts of moldy bread in some filthy, ruined tavern where there are more diseases than teeth.  Everything he has should have been mine, but you denied me.  Now I will deny you."  She is weeping softly as she speaks._

_     Her words send a sudden jolt of terror up his spine.  He sees no weapon, no poison, but obviously she means him harm.  Probably death.  He cannot move, cannot flee whatever she intends.  His thoughts turn abruptly to his wife and child.  They, too, were exposed and defenseless.  He had to protect them.  They would not suffer because of what he had done._

_     "Please, I beg of you, do no harm to my wife and son.  They are innocents.  They know nothing of my past.  Let them go, and visit your wrath upon my head."  He keeps his voice soothing in the hopes of reaching whatever decency that might lie inside of her._

_     She laughs again, and this time it is a genuine laugh, incongruous and frightening amid the ceaseless howl of the driving rain and growling thunder.  "I have no interest in your stupid little wife.  But…as for your son, I'm afraid it is too late," she purrs mournfully._

_     He stares at her in blank incomprehension before dropping his gaze into his lap.  His insides shrivel like curdled milk.  His precious son sits on his lap, small head lolling bonelessly against his shoulder.  His eyes bulge grotesquely from their sockets in a look of terminal surprise.  His small pink tongue protrudes from between puffy blue lips like a dead worm._

_     He tries to scream, but finds that he cannot.  The sound remains lodged in his head, ricocheting from one side of his skull to the other, building into a crescendo until he is sure his head will burst with it.  _This cannot be, _he thinks.  _How?  How?  _And then he knows how.  In the extremity of his terror, he has crushed his son to death in his own frozen, rigid arms.  While he had been staring into the flashing eyes of his daughter, his son had smothered to death in the confines of the safest place in the world-his father's lap._

_      "You destroy everything you touch."  There is savage triumph in her voice._

_     He looks up, intending to curse her for what she has done, for what she has made him do, but when his eyes swing upward from the lifeless corpse of his only son, it is not his daughter that his sees.  Now it Sithirantiel, her black eyes alive with unquenchable hatred._

_     "I told you I would destroy you.  I promised."_

_     A jagged shard of glass flashes as a fork of lightning rends the sky.  In the brief instant of illumination, he sees a thin smear of dark, coagulating blood.  Then the shadow falls again, plunging everything into darkness.  He understands now why his guards have not come for him.  If he calls out, there will be no aid.  His past has caught up with him at last._

_     With a hissing laugh, she comes for him.       _

Lord Elrond, who has never sired a son named Galathion, sat bolt upright in the rocker, his head snapping painfully against the headrest.  His heart thundered with bruising force inside his chest, and adrenaline surged through his limbs, making him feel light-headed and nauseated.  His breathing was ragged, and a light sheen of sweat dewed on his skin.  He was trembling.

     _Oh, Elbereth help me, what was that? _he thought.  Never before had he experienced so vivid, so surreal a dream.  It was almost as though it had been a vision.  He could still feel his dream-daughter's stale breath upon his face, still sense the helpless weight of a child in his lap.  His senses remained enmeshed in the thread of his nightmare.  He took a deep breath and willed his heart to slow down.

     When the pounding roar of blood in his ears receded to its more familiar sussurating whoosh, he heard the shrill, tiny cry of an infant.  For a moment he was so shocked that his chest spasmed painfully, but then he remembered his newborn daughter.  Yes, he had been holding her and must have fallen asleep.

     "Oh Valar, little one, it's alright, don't be frightened," he soothed.  He wondered if he had hurt her in any way while in the throes of his dream.

     He cradled her in the crook of his arm and stood, noting the damp swaddling against his fingertips.  No wonder she was crying.  He crossed the wide room to a narrow wardrobe beneath the window.  He winced slightly at the crick in his neck, staggering a bit while sensation returned to his sluggish feet.  A quick glance out the window told him it was just before dawn; already the sky was bleeding pink, but there was not yet any sign of the sun.  He had been asleep roughly five and a half hours, then.

     With his free hand, he opened the wardrobe and took out fresh swaddling, then turned and put the infant on the smooth wooden surface of the table the midwife used for bathing just-born babies.  The tiny bundle wriggled and grunted furiously, tiny fingers just visible over the edge of the blanket.

     "I know, I know.  Don't worry, we'll fix you up soon enough," he said.

  He turned once again to the narrow wardrobe and took a smaller swatch of cloth and a pouch of talc from the topmost shelf.  Changing her would give him a good opportunity to examine her and make sure that he hadn't hurt her in any way.  He nudged the door shut with his elbow and paused, thinking how strange it was that he should be here caring for a baby.  He had never changed swaddling before and was not exactly sure how it was done.

     He returned his attention to the squirming infant on the table, smiling at the bitter irony of it all.  Almost since the day he'd met Celebrian, he had been dreaming and planning for a moment such as this.  He had imagined changing soiled swaddling or comforting a colicky child in the wee hours of the morning, while Celebrian looked on in beaming approval of her husband's prowess as a father.  Now, here he was changing his baby's swaddling as he had so often imagined, but there was no sense of tranquil domesticity in the task.  It was sordid and secret and somehow very sad.  Instead of joyous approval, there was only a terrible melancholy.

     He rested his hands against the table, feeling a lump form in his throat.  It should never have had to be this way.  He felt a helpless anger welling within him.  This was his child, his daughter; he knew it beyond doubt, and he loved her, loved her so fiercely that it made his vision blur with tears.  Despite her circumstances, she was indisputably a gift from the Valar, and he felt the undeniable sanctity and divinity of her every time he entered the room.  Why were the Fates forcing him to make such an agonizing decision, to choose whom he loved and desired more?  Why was he being forced to choose between his flesh and blood and the owner of his soul?

     He pondered these thoughts as he unwrapped the dirty swaddling and tossed it aside.  The baby let out an enraged squawk as her small bottom made contact with the cool wood of the table.  Tiny feet kicked vigorously into the air.  Her blue eyes looked into his own.  _Pick me up at once, silly fool, _those eyes seemed to say, and she wore such an expression of haughty affront that he smiled.

     "Surely you would do no harm to your father," he said, reaching into the pouch of talc and lifting her bottom.

     It was intended to be a light-hearted jest to the child, but once he had uttered the words, fragments of his dream returned to him, and the smile evaporated from his face.  In the dream, she had done him harm, immeasurable harm.  She had laughed while he stared in mute horror at the dead weight of his son.  She had come to kill him.

     _That was just a dream!  Only a dream.  You have no son, _said the calm, rational side of his mind.

     That was true, and yet the dream had been so vivid.  It had been like prophecy, a glimpse into his future.  Even now it disturbed him.  He remembered the crackling sense of foreboding power the dream-child had possessed, that aura of righteous wrath.  Would this innocent life one day return to be his doom?  Would he one day look up into those blue eyes and see his death written there?

     _Enough of this morbid conjecture, _he chided himself.  He had not come to be ruler of the realm of Rivendell by jumping at every fanciful shadow or unhappy dream.  He had been visited by no prophecy; it had been a mere dream, brought on by lingering feelings of guilt over his unwanted indiscretion with Sithirantiel.  The dream had borne that out-at the end, it had been her face he'd seen looming over him, not the wretched, wraith-like face of his misbegotten daughter.  Besides, he sensed no malice from the child now presenting her small, rosy buttocks to him.  She held no portent of doom.  She was just a baby, radiating purity and goodness and grasping her toes in a most dexterous manner.

     _Ah, but life has not yet tainted her with its cruelty, _sneered the voice in his head.

     He ignored the thought and concentrated on wrapping the baby in fresh swaddling.  When he was done, he held her up in front of him.  Though inexpertly done and a bit looser than he would have liked, the child seemed contented with his handiwork.  In fact, she was looking at him with an my-but-you-did-better-than-I-expected expression that he found comical.

     He snuggled her to his chest and turned to face the window.  He did not want to return to the rocker.  He was already stiff from so many hours of sitting.  In a few moments the sun would creep over the horizon and shed light upon another day.  As he stood there with his child bundled in his arms, he remembered the vision he had once had of raising her above his head and dashing her brains out against the floor and shuddered.

     _How could I ever have harbored such a thought?_ he asked himself.  Now that she lay curled on his chest, a warm, defenseless lump, breathing in rhythm with his heartbeat, he knew that he needn't to have worried about committing such an act.  It would be like tearing himself apart.

     He thought about his nightmare.  She had despised him.  His heart ached at the thought of it.  She probably _would_ loathe him if he sent her away, and with good reason.  He would be denying her her birthright as princess of Rivendell.  Even if she were fortunate enough to have a loving home, her life would be no more than a construct of precarious lies, the discovery of any one of which would bring her world crashing down.  He thought of her wasted body and haunted mind.  If he sent her away, she would suffer much.

     She squirmed restlessly against his chest as though sensing his disquiet.  He placed a soothing hand against the back of her small, pink head, marveling at its delicacy.  If he pushed just a fraction too hard, he could kill her.  He stood for a moment, tormented by his thoughts, sighed, and then seemed to come to a decision.

     "I might not get the chance to be much of a father to you, but I can give you this," he whispered softly, his lips brushing the soft down of her head.

     Yes, whatever else he might take from her, he could give her this at least.  She deserved that much.  He would acknowledge her as his child here in this room, before the Valar.  He would acknowledge their gift, even if he were the only one to ever know it.

     He held her up, letting the swaddling fall.  Face to face, they gazed at one another, he with awed melancholy; she with the goggling curiosity of an infant.  He pulled her to him until their foreheads touched.  Then he held her away from him again.

     "I acknowledge you as my child, my hope.  Here, before all, I greet you with open arms.  With great joy, I claim you for my own.  I am your father.  Come now into my house and bear my name.  Welcome to the house of Lord Elrond Half-Elven."

     His voice was rough with emotion, but he dared not weep.  Tears would belie his inner turmoil, and he was determined that the Valar should understand that he was grateful for the gift.  His arms trembled as he turned her toward the rising sun.

     "Oh, mighty Valar, I accept the gift you have so graciously bestowed upon me.  I ask that you lend me the grace to guide her along the path of life until such time as she can see her own way.  Help me to temper justice with mercy when she strays.  May I never forget that she is her own spirit; help me encourage her to grow in beauty and strength and to respect this world that we have been given.  May I return unto you when my obligation is through a credit to our race.  A Elbereth Gilthoniel!"

     At these last words he held her out toward the sun in silent offering.  She gave a happy gurgle, as if to say she understood and accepted his invitation into his life.  Then he lowered her and pulled her to him again, covering her soft head in feathery kisses.

     "It's done, then," he said.

     The Proclaiming had been done according to the letter of elven law.  He had acknowledged her as his offspring, making her a legitimate and accepted member of society.  There was just one small problem.  

     There were no witnesses.

36__

     "Ah, having a bit of quiet bonding, I see."

     He whirled around, startled.  The midwife came gliding into the room, a serene smile on her face.  Crisp and clean in white gown and simple white smock, she flitted around arranging cots and straightening linens.  Her snowy hair, piled high atop her head in a braided bun, shone in the gentle morning sun.

     _How much did she see? _he wondered.

     If she had seen anything, she gave no sign.  She bustled over to Elrond and began cleaning up the table, replacing the talc pouch and dusting off the stray granules of powder.  She beamed when she saw the baby.

     "Ah, there's our newest arrival!  A right healthy little mite you are!  Ten days old, and look at those rosy cheeks!"  She tickled the baby's chin.  "You," she said, switching her gaze to her liege, "look awful."

     "I'm afraid sleep has been scarce for me these past few days," he admitted, yawning.  "I just want to spend as much time as I can with her before…"

     "If I may speak freely, m'lord," the midwife ventured timidly.  When he nodded his consent, she continued.  "I see no reason why you and the child should be parted.  Tell Mistress Celebrian."

     "Out of the question."

     "There are still other ways.  We can place her with another family.  Everyone will already know the reasons why she was adopted.  At least the reasons they can see.  Her mother died; her father either died or fled.  No one needs to know more than that."

     He had thought of that very scenario himself, but had dismissed it as too risky.  If the child grew to resemble him there could be trouble.  He shook his head.

     "Then give her to me," the old woman pleaded.  "I will raise her.  I will teach her the art of midwifery.  I was never gifted a child, and hearing little feet around would bring comfort to my lonely heart.  What is more, you could visit her and watch her grow without suspicion.  It is not uncommon for you to be of assistance to me during particularly hard labors."  She stopped and looked at him with such earnestness that he was shocked.  

     "Why is it so important to you that she stay?"

     "A child should know her parents.  Her mother, Lord Elbereth be praised, is gone.  You, however, remain.  She has much to learn from you, things she would learn from no one else-courage, honor, dignity, and what it is like to be loved by a parent.  If you shun her, there are no guarantees as to what will become of her.  She will be an opportunity lost."

     Her words resonated deep within his soul.  He had often, growing up, wondered how much he had lost without his father.  What wisdom had he taken with him to the grave?  He had been fortunate enough to be taken under the auspices of a great elven king, but the absence of his real father had left an unmistakable void in his life.  As full as his life was, there would always be a sense of imperfection, of incompleteness.

     "Now," said the midwife, sensing that he wanted to change the subject, "I am certain the little one is quite hungry.  What do you say, angel, shall we go to the kitchens and get you a bottle of warm milk?  Then, back we come for a nice bath."

     She plucked the chubby bundle from Elrond's arms and made her way to the door.  Before leaving, she turned, her hand resting on the door handle.  

     "Get some rest, sire.  You can be of no use to anyone if you shamble about in a sleepless haze."  With a slight inclination of her head, she slipped out the door.

     He let himself out and headed for his chambers, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs.  He was in no hurry, content to mull over the midwife's proposal.  While she had no personal experience in bringing up a child, he was sure she was more than capable of doing so, perhaps better prepared than he was.  And it would solve most of his problems.  It would assuage his guilt while allowing him to enjoy his life with Celebrian.  He could be close to his daughter without arousing suspicion; like a kindly uncle, he would impart life's wisdom, fulfilling his duties to her in the guise of teacher.  The only flaw in the plan was the ever-present possibility that someone would see the close resemblance and grow suspicious.  Then again, it was equally likely that she would not look like him at all.  It was far too early to tell.

     Feeling lighter of heart than he had in many days, he nodded to the guards outside his chamber door and went inside.  He would have a good soak in the tub to clear his mind and ease his cramping muscles.  Then a quick nap before his customary morning meetings with his advisors.  By the position of the sunlight streaming through the window, he had at least three hours until he was expected to summon them.  He deserved and needed a bit of self-comfort.

     He had just removed his robes and was about to call for a guard to bring his bath when there came a sharp rap upon his door, and a guard stuck his head into the room.

     "Sire, Lady Celebrian is here," he said.

     Elrond quickly slipped on a fresh robe.  So much for his relaxing bath.  "Very well.  Send her in."

     The guard nodded and withdrew.  A moment later, Celebrian entered, radiant as usual in a shimmering teal gown that hugged tightly to her tiny waist.  Her hair hung free to her waist.  When she saw him, she touched her fingertips to her lips in surprise.

     "My dear, you look ghastly," she said, hurrying over to him.  Since the fortuitous death of Sithirantiel, much of the stress between them had lifted, allowing the warmth to return to their relationship.

     "I'm fine, my darling, just a bit tired."  He took her hands in his own and kissed them.  "You look lovely, as always."

     She was not to be swayed by such flattery.  "Has something been troubling you?"

     "No.  I've just been tending to the foundling in the nursery.  Tiring work."  He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed.  Celebrian gathered up the hem of her gown and followed suit.

     "You seem to have taken quite an interest in her," she said.  There was no accusation in her voice, only observation.

     "Yes, I suppose I have.  It's not everyday we're faced with an orphaned elf, is it?  Fatherless elves, yes, but completely orphaned elves are a rare happening.  She will have many disadvantages.  I worry for her.  I remember what it was like to feel alone in the world."

     "There must be someone who'll be willing to take her in," she reasoned, "and the midwife will take good care of her in the meantime."

     "I know, but I feel responsible for her welfare."

     Celebrian laughed.  "The way you go on, you would think she was your own child."

     "Whatever gave you that idea?" he asked.  His face suddenly felt frozen.

     "You just seem like such an old mother," she tittered, and rested her head upon his shoulder.

     His heart began to beat again.

     Things might have turned out very differently, but the Fates had other plans.  An ear-splitting wail sliced through the peaceful quiet of the castle, a shriek of pain and terror.  Elrond was on his feet and out the door before the sound had completely died away.  He knew that sound all too well-the sound of a child in terror.  And there was only one child in this castle.

     He ran toward his nameless daughter, his paternal instinct blotting out everything but the terrible wail.  He did not hear Celebrian's confused calls behind him, did not see the flash of silver halberds as the guards fell into step behind him.

     He burst through the door to find the midwife standing, horrorstruck, over the screaming, wet form of the baby.  Her soap-covered hands and horrified expression made it abundantly clear what had happened.

     "M'lord, forgive me, I must have had soap on my hands.  I picked her up out of the bath and she slipp-," she stammered as he rushed to the child's side.

     "If your gross incompetence has harmed this child in any way, I will take your head myself," he roared, anger and fear contorting his features.

     He picked the baby up from the floor.  She was hysterical, wet, and shaking from cold and fear.  He cradled her gingerly, whispering softly in her ear.  She continued to howl, tiny fists shaking.  He could see no grave injuries, but he needed to be sure.

     "Out!  Everyone out!  NOW!"

     Everyone stared at him.  No one had ever seen him so furious.  The guards shuffled their feet, shooting each other bewildered, furtive glances.  Celebrian stood in the doorway, mesmerized and frightened by this unexpected display of fury by her promised.  She had never seen this side of him before and silently prayed that she never would again.

     "Well, what are you waiting for?  OUT!!"  To Celebrian, in a gentler tone, he said, "Beloved, go and inform my counselors that I will be late for our morning meeting.  After I'm finished with them, we will have a nice lunch in the garden.  Go on, go."

     She nodded and retreated from the room.  One by one, the guards inclined their heads and filed out.  Soon only he, the child, and the midwife remained.  The older woman looked at him, trembling, her eyes full of remorse and terror.

     "My lord, forgive me.  I did not intend-,"

     He silenced her with a look and paced quietly around the room, trying to soothe the terrified child.

     "Hush now, adar is here.  It's alright."  He repeated the words over and over again in a calming whisper, brushing his fingertips up and down her back.

     It occurred to him as he carried his daughter around the room that he could never hope to keep her a secret if she remained here.  His love for her would be his undoing.  The first time she were threatened or harmed, he would lose all his reason and expose himself in his attempts to protect her.  The darkness and weariness that had temporarily left him just an hour ago now resettled over his heart like a shroud.

     When she had quieted, he lay her down on the table and began to gently probe her arms and legs, checking for breaks or fractures.  He examined her with trembling hands, knowing at last in his heart of hearts that he could not keep her.  When he was satisfied that there was no serious hurt, he rewrapped her in swaddling, took her in his arms, and went to sit in the rocker.

     After a long silence, the midwife emerged from the corner into which she had retreated in the face of his wrath.  "I know of a man in Mirkwood," she said quietly, unsure if she should speak.  "He and his wife have tried long for a child with no success.  They would be most pleased to have her.  I could write-,"

     "Do it," he said roughly.

     The midwife fled the room.

     When she had gone, he began to sing a lullaby to the still-anxious child he held.  It was a lullaby she would remember all of her life, a sweet refrain that would bring her comfort in times of uncertainty, a song that carried love in every note.  Three bars in, the reality of what he was about to do struck him, and he wept bitterly.  After a moment, the ghost child, the child that existed only for him, joined him.        


End file.
